


Undertow

by Dark_Fluid



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Aquaphobia, Blood and Gore, Cleithrophobia, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Mind Control, Minor canon divergence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Plot Spoilers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rated E for future chapters, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, party dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Fluid/pseuds/Dark_Fluid
Summary: “Are you a selkie?” he muses. A slow, seductive smile tugs at one corner of his lips. There’s a short pause from the half-elf, followed by a warm note of laughter.“Are you planning to steal my skin?”“Tempting. Though, at present, I’d prefer to steal your wine.”
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s), Astarion/Charname (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Male Rogue MC
Comments: 63
Kudos: 117





	1. Like I'm Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it the sea you hear in me,  
> Its dissatisfactions?  
> Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?
> 
> -Sylvia Plath, “Elm”

Art by [Paperwick](https://paperwick.tumblr.com/)

The night the mind flayers arrive in Baldur’s Gate, Lyr’s ship docks home in the harbor. They’re carrying a heavy cargo of silver and dwarven-made weapons from Luskan, and by the time the crew finish unloading they’re exhausted and eager for a drink. It’s been months since Lyr last set foot in his birth city, long enough that he’d begun to forget the gravity it holds over him, but there is no mistaking the sensation of heaviness that settles into his bones when he steps onto the dock and inhales Baldurian air.

A selfish part of him wants to follow his ship-mates to a tavern and drink until the world begins to melt, sharp edges lost to the liquid velvet of inebriation. Instead he makes his way down too-familiar roads until the door to his father’s home looms ahead of him, because Lyr is not as selfish as he wishes he was, and because the ghosts of childhood are always the hardest to exorcise.

Inside, he finds his father slumped over in a chair by the hearth, one hand coiled possessively around the neck of an empty liquor bottle. The fire has burnt down to embers, leaving the room blanketed in shadows. The air smells of whiskey and a fine sediment of decay. Crouching on the balls of his feet, Lyr adds new kindling to the fire, disturbing it with a poker until the coals glow with renewed life and fresh flames catch hungrily at the dry wood. Behind him, a soft creak of the chair announces his father’s returning awareness.

“Was beginning to think you’d gone the way of your mother, boy.”

Lyr ignores the barb, gazing darkly into the fire. “Have you eaten?”

“ _Ach_ …” his father makes a pained sound, shifting in his seat. “Don’t eat much, these days. Stomach ails me.”

Lyr glances over his shoulder at the empty bottle still clutched in his father’s grip. He doesn’t meet the man’s gaze, just stands and sets the poker back against the wall. “I’ll see what I can find at the apothecary tomorrow. You need to eat.”

“Hey, how about you make us some of that fish stew? You were so proud first time you got it right; got that big beaming smile when I told you I liked it…”

“Do you have any salt fish?”

“Old Jenny’ll have some. Why don’t you go knock on her door? She was always partial to you.”

So Lyr subjects himself to Jenny’s ostensibly well-meaning interrogation and returns with food in hand. He has to scrub down the small kitchen table before he feels comfortable using it, scraping away months of caked-on filth with quick, aggressive strokes and a quietly brooding expression. His father talks to him while he cooks, words rambling like rivers over old, well-worn memories. Lyr says very little during these monologues. The landscape of his father’s reality is at-once alien and painfully familiar: visions of a world that bears little resemblance to Lyr’s own lived experience, forever arrested in time by the spectre of his mother’s absent figure.

There isn’t much that Lyr remembers about his mother. Even these glimpses are shrouded in uncertainty, warped by the creeping influence of his father’s dubious recollections. Were it not for the mark of her elven heritage in his features, Lyr might almost imagine that she never existed at all; that his father simply conjured a child from thin air to help sate the hunger of his emotional void.

Dinner is consumed by the hearth, firelight chasing shadows across the claustrophobic walls of the small townhome. Lyr rests the heel of his boot on the edge of his chair, leg bent casually at the knee as he balances a warm, earthenware bowl in one hand. A pause in the conversation causes him to look up, and when he meets his father’s gaze he catches a rare flash of clarity in the older man’s eyes.

“You’ve put on some muscle since last I saw you. That Captain must be working you hard.”

“She is.”

“I suppose at least it’s honest work.”

“I seem to recall my _dishonest_ work keeping us alive a good number of years.”

“Did that all by yourself, did you?”

Lyr levels a long, silent look at his father. After a moment, the man laughs and leans back in his chair, dipping a husk of bread into his bowl to mop up the last of the broth.

“You are so much like your mother.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Stubborn as cats, both of you. And just as withholding.”

When Lyr’s bowl hits the wall, it cracks into three pieces and scatters over the floor, leaving a dripping mosaic of stew across the daub. In the wake of this sudden, violent act, the room goes uncomfortably silent. His father stares at the mess as though he can’t quite fathom how it got there. Lyr flexes his fingers and stands up.

“I’m going out.”

*******

On his way back to shore, Lyr steals a bottle of wine from a group of drunken pirates (who themselves claim to have stolen it from a magistrate.) It’s a lovely, dry red: complex notes of berry and spice lingering on his tongue. He drinks it straight from the bottle, taking long, greedy swigs as he walks.

Eventually he finds the beach, deserted in the night and swept by a chill wind rolling in off the harbor. A churning tide crashes against the sand, dragging back the shoreline beneath frothy seafoam tendrils. Lyr toes his way up to the edge of the water, half-empty bottle swinging loosely at his side. The wine in his blood flushes his skin with false heat. His eyes feel glassy and wet, brimming with their own dark oceans. On impulse, he opens his mouth and lets loose a long, visceral shout. The sound dissolves into the waves and carries away on the wind like an offering.

After a long moment, he starts to walk away. Midway back he changes his mind and turns, setting the wine down in the sand. He pulls off his boots one by one and drops them beside it, then his bracers, vest and tunic. The air on his skin is vitalizing. Lyr exhales a shaky breath, then runs headlong into the waves.

* * *

“Astarion, come.” Cazador lifts a hand and beckons with a curl of his index finger, drawing Astarion into the room. The vampire lord’s attention is fixed on a piece of parchment laid before him on the desk. Whatever is written there, Astarion can’t make it out. He paces closer, attempting to catch a better glimpse under the guise of obedience, but Cazador halts his progress with a silent gesture. He rolls the parchment carefully, sealing it with a dab of hot wax. “You will take this to the smuggler Karlov. He’s waiting at the docks.”

“As you wish, Master.” Astarion executes a half-bow, extending his hand gracefully. Cazador sets the scroll into his upturned palm.

“Bring me something to eat on your way back.”

“Of course.”

Cazador dismisses him with an absent wave, his focus already turned elsewhere.

*******

Astarion is certain that Cazador derives some small sadistic pleasure from forcing him to travel near water’s edge. There are plenty enough lackeys available to do this sort of work: mortal beings whose skin does not burn on contact with the sea. But where would be the fun in that?

He takes one of the horses and makes his way down to the docks, slowing the mare’s pace as the harbor looms into view. The scent of the ocean makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He leaves his mount tied to a post and strides down the long pier, wooden planks creaking softly beneath the heels of his boots. Waves slosh ominously against the pillars, tossing little sprays of seawater into the air. Nearby, the tall, barnacle-coated hulls of cargo ships rock lazily against their anchors. It’s all Astarion can do to appear normal, to march across the threat of certain death as if it were an ordinary act. But of course, to do anything else would be anathema. Cazador commanded, and so Astarion’s feet move as they’re bid.

He’s just finishing up with the smuggler when something catches his attention: a distant shout, barely audible over the sound of the ocean. Turning his head, he peers down the length of the beach, silver brows furrowed in contemplation.

_Bring me something to eat on your way back._

He leaves the docks at a quick stride, hoping to locate the source of the call before the man leaves the area. Possibly he is already dead. Possibly he’s with friends, which will make the task more difficult (though certainly not impossible.) Possibly the sound was merely phantoms in the night; Astarion’s ears playing tricks with the elements. He retrieves his horse and urges her into a swift canter. The mare’s hooves dislodge showering clumps of sand as they travel down the beach. Scanning the darkened landscape, Astarion searches the shore for signs of life. Eventually his eyes land on the distant shape of a wine bottle stuck into the ground. Beside it: what looks to be a pile of clothing. But the owner of said items?

Nowhere to be found.

Astarion slows the mare to a halt and dismounts. Kneeling down in the sand, he picks up the mostly-empty wine bottle and takes a curious sniff of its contents. The bouquet is complex and alluring: an expensive vintage. By contrast, the clothing nearby is of a far more serviceable make. Astarion’s eyes trail over the worn leather boots, noting salt stains and water damage. One of the dock workers, maybe, or a sailor on shore leave. Someone whose disappearance would be unlikely to raise suspicion.

Footprints mark a path from the abandoned boots to the dark and churning waves. Astarion rises and paces across the sand, following the trail as far as he dares. He stands just out of range of the tide’s beckoning grasp, gazing out across the wide expanse of the sea. For a moment he feels as though he is standing at the edge of a yawning void: as inexorable and primordial as death itself.

Then something breaches the surface a few boat-lengths out: a male figure, head and torso rising above the choppy water with propulsive force. His spine arches like some kind of elegant sea creature before gravity drags him back down. Water splashes as the figure makes his way back to shore, cutting through the waves with powerful strokes of his arms. When he reaches the shallows, he stands and pushes the hair back from his face, blinking against the sting of salt water in his eyes. In that moment he catches sight of Astarion and the trajectory of his body goes still.

The swimmer is a half-elf. Even from a distance Astarion can recognize the telltale shape of his ears, too long and sharp to be human but far too small to be properly elven. Waves of short dark hair curl loose and wet around his head. The waistline of his pants hangs low on his hips, heavy and clinging with seawater. The naked flesh of his torso shows off a swimmer’s build: long-limbed, lithe and athletic.

He’s beautiful. Beautiful and _alive_ , blood pumping hard in defiance of exhaustion and the creeping chill of the sea. Astarion can taste his heartbeat in the air. Cazador will be pleased.

“Are you a selkie?” he muses. A slow, seductive smile tugs at one corner of his lips. There’s a short pause from the half-elf, followed by a warm note of laughter.

“Are you planning to steal my skin?”

“Tempting. Though, at present, I’d prefer to steal your wine.”

The half-elf wades free of the rolling tide, leaving fresh prints in the wet sand as he approaches Astarion. Close up, Astarion can see goosebumps rising on the man’s arms. Traces of color darken his lips, and his lanky body gives an involuntary shiver that causes his voice to catch when he speaks. “It’s already... changed hands twice today.” He licks his lips and pulls in a deep breath. When he exhales, the tremor in his voice relaxes. “Help yourself.”

Astarion brings the mouth of the bottle to his lips and tips it back. The wine _is_ good. Very good, in fact. For a moment he allows himself to close his eyes and savor it. When he opens them again, he catches the half-elf watching him with rapt interest, gaze dark and glassy with inebriation. A brief flare of guilt twists low in Astarion’s stomach, but he pushes it aside. Guilt is useless without agency. How many times has he been in this moment? Too many to count. Numbly detached or wracked with remorse, it always ends the same. “Do you normally make a habit of swimming in the ocean alone at night?”

“Only when the right mood catches me.”

“And what mood would that be?”

Something passes over the half-elf’s face: a quiet heaviness that douses the warmth in his eyes and drags his attention inward. In the ghostly light of Astarion’s night vision, the man’s irises seem near-black. For a moment Astarion’s attention is arrested there, fixated on the wet spray of prominent eyelashes.

Then the half-elf speaks, his voice airy and distant. “When I feel like I’m drowning.”

A moment of silence settles between them, punctuated by whistling gusts of wind and the rhythmic churning of the sea. After some consideration, Astarion says, “I suppose there’s a kind of logic in that. Simpler to fight a real ocean than a figurative one. Does it help?”

“A little.” The half-elf steps forward into Astarion’s space, reaching out to take the wine from him. Stubbornly, Astarion keeps his grip on the neck of the bottle. The half-elf grasps just beneath it and for a moment their fingers overlap. He’s close enough that Astarion can feel his pulse radiating from his body. Instinctively, Astarion’s eyes move to the hollow of the man’s throat, where blood beats quick and defiant beneath the delicate skin. Raising his gaze, he meets the half-elf’s dark eyes. The other returns the look with sharpened focus and a wave of hunger coils itself in Astarion’s gut. The half-elf tips his head, indicating the bottle still grasped in both their hands. “...May I?”

“Perhaps. If you ask nicely.”

The half-elf hums softly, amused interest drawing out a sultry smile. After a moment he leans in, the warmth of his breath gusting over the sensitive ridges of Astarion’s ear. The difference in their heights requires the taller half-elf to bend his head, leaving the curve of his neck in easy view. “ _Please_.”

It’s dangerous, that word; the smell of saltwater on the half-elf’s neck, the beautiful dark velvet of his eyes... the nearness of him, his youthful body humming with vitality. Astarion is no stranger to hunger: it lives within him always, but in moments like this, when he _wants_ with such desperate ferocity, it feels as though his veins are being set alight. The force of it shocks him a little; makes him part his lips and draw in a shaky breath.

He releases his hold on the wine. The half-elf steps back, raising it to his lips to drink. When he’s done, he lowers the bottle and goes still. “Gods, you are _so_ beautiful.”

He speaks it like a prayer: breathy and reverent. Something in Astarion’s heart folds in and collapses.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much wine,” he observes, smiling softly.

“Probably.” The half-elf matches his smile. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Astarion takes a slow, deliberate step forward. Lifting his hand, he reaches to tuck a stray curl of damp hair behind the man’s ear. The tips of his fingers trace their way down the curve of cartilage to rest at his jaw. “Flatterer,” he whispers. The half-elf gives a slow shake of his head, leaning into the touch.

“I don’t flatter.”

Astarion lets his hand drift lower, drawing a line down past the pulse-points in the man’s neck. His touch wants to linger there, but when he reaches the sternum he flattens his hand and gives a slow, firm push. “Go back to your ocean, selkie.”

He doesn’t know why he does it. Substituting one life for another changes little in the end. Already the cold, whispering ghost of Cazador’s voice is back in his mind, haunting him like a hallucinatory echo. The half-elf doesn’t try to stop him. A flash of disappointment blooms in his eyes, but Astarion turns away from it quickly.

As he walks, he curls his hand into a loose fist at his side, trapping the warmth from the man’s skin in his grasp like a keepsake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Jesse Marchant, [Adrift](https://youtu.be/eTA6_bc5Y3s)
> 
> I wanted to start things off with a prelude, but the next chapter will pick up where the game begins.
> 
> Regarding future tags / content warnings: Both Astarion and Lyr are survivors of abuse, so content regarding this abuse and its aftermath is likely to come up where relevant. This may include references to torture, mind control and rape/sexual abuse. I'm a rape survivor myself, and many of the people closest to me have PTSD, so I take these topics seriously and try to write them with as much sensitivity as I can. I will be updating tags and content warnings as I go.
> 
> I am typically fairly slow to update, as my writing speed is... not what it used to be. As of now I don't have an estimated chapter count. My immediate goal is to reach the end of the early access content. Depending on how I feel at that point, I may continue into uncharted territory.


	2. Into a Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: Overt mind control / loss of physical agency**
> 
> A world of made  
> is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh  
> and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this  
> fine specimen of hypermagical  
> ultraomnipotence. We doctors know  
> a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell  
> of a good universe next door; let's go
> 
> -e.e. cummings, “pity this busy monster, manunkind”

In the wake of the elf’s departure, Lyr stands alone against the dark horizon. Behind him, the sea whispers its vast incantations. He closes his eyes and imagines the world around him melting, its boundaries bleeding together like wet ink. He imagines his body dissolving into elements.

It makes the loneliness feel less acute.

Abandoning the last dregs of wine, he drops the bottle in the sand and moves to collect his clothes. He can’t bring himself to go home, so he builds a fire out of driftwood and lets the heat from the flames lull him into a warm, hypnotic slumber.

There is darkness, and then his body gives a sudden lurch … and the earth disappears beneath him.

Lyr’s eyes fly open with a gasp of adrenaline.

He doesn’t recognize his surroundings, and for a brief, disorienting moment he thinks he must be trapped in some strange nightmare, but the cold press of metal on his body and the pounding ache in his head are far too real. He tries to move his arms and finds them locked tight to his sides.

A spike of feral panic floods his body. Trapped like this, with the animal part of his mind working itself into a fury, it becomes difficult to rationally analyze his circumstances. Nothing before him is recognizable. The room is round and dark and cavernous. Alien architecture gleams slick and metallic in the artificial light. A foreboding circle of tall, tentacled pods stand evenly spaced around the perimeter. Lyr catches movement in his periphery and locks his eyes on the pod immediately to his right. Another prisoner stands trapped inside, struggling against her bonds. Exotic features mark her as a foreigner, but the nature of her origins is unknown to him.

Lyr can feel his chest pressing in against his lungs. He tries to tamp down the rising panic, but his breath is starting to come in short staccato gasps. With a desperate snarl, he flexes his arms and wrenches his torso back and forth, fighting valiantly and uselessly against his bonds. If he could just get even _one_ hand free…

Too late. Something floats toward them. A shaft of light bathes the figure in an unearthly glow as it drifts to the center of the room, revealing a tall, grey-skinned being with amber-flinted eyes and tentacles flowing from its jaw.

A mind flayer.

The realization strikes like a knife. Lyr amplifies his efforts to break free, thrashing against the pod until its restraints cut bruises through his clothes. The mind flayer turns its eyes toward him, and with a gesture has him pressed back and frozen in place, its will resonating through his mind like a clap of thunder.

**_Be still._ **

Lyr’s body shudders with revulsion at the loss of agency.

The mind flayer reaches into a glowing pool and retrieves what looks to be a squirming white larva. The illithid turns its attention first to the female captive, floating toward her pod with the dripping worm held aloft. The prisoner grimaces in disgust and tries to tear her eyes away, but the mind flayer’s psionics hold her in place. Forced to watch, Lyr stares in mounting horror as the parasite drops from the illithid’s grasp and slithers toward the prisoner’s eye. When it finds its point of entry, it squeezes past the obstruction and disappears into her skull.

Time unspools like reams of thread. A moment passes. An eon. Lyr takes a breath and the mind flayer is there at his side, fiery gaze burning hot into his skin.

Lyr’s eyes sting with furious, defiant tears. The parasite squirms in his field of vision, stretching blindly toward its goal. Its mouth opens like a lamprey.

He tries to scream, but his jaw is locked tight. The creature strikes, and Lyr plunges deep into a cold, dark ocean.

In the distance, soft filaments of light refract beneath the water’s surface. The haunting glow seems impossibly far away: a fading echo of some distant universe. Lyr can feel the weight of an abyssal gravity dragging him down

down

down.

There is no end to it.

His lungs burn.

The light disappears.

Deep in the black sea’s yawning void, something moves. The coils of its body unfold and stretch toward the surface.

_(Wake up.)_

Lyr shudders as the temperature drops.

_(Wake up.)_

Beneath him, the great beast opens its jaws.

**_(Wake up!)_ **

Lyr comes to with a gasp as a plume of fire bursts across his field of vision. Something nearby fractures and erupts in a spray of broken glass. The air is hot and thick with a strange, foul-smelling smoke. Still trapped in his pod, Lyr can feel his center of gravity rock alarmingly as the room tips to one side. Light pours in from a break in the wall, and when he turns his face he finds himself staring into the eyes of a great red dragon.

Behind it he can see the sky rushing past. In a blink the dragon disappears, soaring off into the clouds on broad-stretched wings. The ship rocks again, lurching at the sound of some far-off explosion.

The mind flayers are under attack.

Lyr shoots a glance around the room, noting with mixed relief and anxiety that his fellow prisoner seems to have orchestrated an escape. Her empty pod bears evidence of recent damage.

Another explosion. The ship jostles and tips precariously. Something finally cracks in Lyr’s pod and the thing pitches forward, crashing heavily to the floor. Lyr’s skull hits the side of his cage with a sharp flash of pain, and for a few moments he loses consciousness again.

When he comes to, his body is hanging half in and half out of his damaged pod. With a groan, he manages to wriggle his bruised torso free of the restraints. Untangling his legs, he spills out onto the floor and climbs unsteadily to his feet. Recollection of the parasite’s invasion washes over him with vivid clarity. The memory triggers a fresh wave of panic, and it’s all he can do not to let himself spiral down into it. He screws his eyes shut and rakes his nails over his scalp, as though somehow he could physically _claw_ the thing out of his head.

But of course he can’t. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself standing beside the parasite’s incubation pool. A large school of the strange tadpoles darts around beneath the surface, seemingly agitated by the surrounding chaos. Lyr watches them for a moment, transfixed by the horror of his own circumstances. With a choked-off snarl, he kicks out hard with the heel of his boot against the side of the pool. Its walls, already weakened from the dragon’s attack, fracture and collapse like eggshells, sending a wave of incubation liquid spilling out onto the floor. Lyr has to jump back to avoid the parasites as they writhe and flop around.

Something lies sprawled on the ground a few feet away. When Lyr approaches, he finds the lifeless body of the mind flayer, its flat eyes staring blindly and vacantly into his own. He should be relieved by the discovery, but he isn’t. All he can feel is cold, useless anger.

But there’s no time to process what any of it means: the mind flayer, the tadpoles, the echoes and reverberations of ongoing battle. Trapped and air-born on an alien vessel, this attack might well be his only chance at escape. So he turns away and searches for an exit.

Somehow, the horror of his own experience doesn’t prepare Lyr for what he finds aboard the ship. In his desperate search for a way out, he moves through rooms populated with strange and unsettling experiments. Prisoners with blank, glassy eyes stare unresponsive into the distance while Lyr saws at their restraints with his belt knife. He quickly learns the futility of his attempts to assist them. Whoever they once were, they seem barely more than husks now.

He tries not to think about what that might mean for himself.

At one point, he finds an elf with his skull sawed open. The exposed brain tissue quivers and calls for assistance while the still-living body works its jaw silently. How much does the prisoner feel? Lyr hopes, for his sake, that he’s already gone. With a delicate tremor in his hand, he pushes his knife into the man’s throat and severs the main artery.

It isn’t the first time he’s taken a life, but it’s the first time he’s done it out of mercy. Afterwards, a small, aching void opens up in his chest.

He very nearly leaves the brain-creature to die, but in the aftermath of all he’s seen he finds he’s lost his will for cruelty. So he pries the horrifying thing from its prison and sets it loose. Once free, the creature sprouts legs and follows after him.

It… is not what he expects.

_“We must get to the helm! At the helm we are needed!”_

_We_ , it says. As though Lyr was already one of them. For a moment he feels a twist of some alien thought: a recognition and a belonging. The intrusion makes him feel ill.

“I’m not helping you.”

_“But we must, or all of us will die...”_

Almost, he says: _Good_. But when he looks away his eyes land on the circle of empty pods standing ominously at the room’s perimeter. How many others like him were taken? How many yet possess their own minds?

“ _Fuck…_ ” he breathes, angry and resigned. “Alright. Take me to the helm.”

The creature leads him out through an opening in the ship’s hull, onto a narrow shelf that clings to the port side of the vessel. Sulphurous winds rush past, scouring Lyr’s cheekbone with grit and buffeting his body against the wall of the ship. The air is hotter than he expects. Pausing a moment to get his bearings, he looks out over the near horizon and widens his eyes in horror.

The landscape is a hellish wasteland: black mountains, molten lakes, a sky filled with ash…

As Lyr watches, a cloud of red imps descends upon the bow of the ship.

 _“Hurry!”_ the brain-creature urges. _“We must get to the helm!”_ This snaps Lyr out of his reverie. He makes his way quickly up the path, keeping his arms out to balance against the wind. When he reaches a break in the shelf, he hesitates only a moment before leaping across. This much, at least, is familiar to him. Years of sailing and a childhood spent scurrying along the rooftops of Baldur’s Gate have long-since rid him of any fear of heights.

Turning to check on his strange companion, Lyr catches movement in the corner of his eye and jumps back, whirling to face the new threat. Immediately he recognizes the face of the escaped prisoner, the dark markings around her eyes contrasting sharply with the pale olive-green tones of her skin. Free of the pod, Lyr can see now that she’s dressed in a warrior’s plate armor, though the make of it is unique. The metal of her breastplate shines brilliantly in the muted light.

“Abomination!” she hisses. “ _This_ is your _end!_ " She raises her sword in a swift arc as Lyr’s hand darts instinctively to his knife.

“Wait! I’m not…”

Something happens then: a strange kind of unfurling, thoughts spilling out like tendrils of fog into the air. Sharp pains flare over the perimeter of Lyr’s skull, and suddenly his senses dissolve into memory.

_He sits atop the back of a great, winged beast, sword raised in a guttural cry of battle fury. The sky rushes past at a dizzying speed, swooping and spinning with each turn of the dragon’s wings…_

But this memory is not his own. It belongs to the warrior, and with a final flash of pain he sees his own face viewed through her eyes. The vision fades soon after, leaving him shaken and disoriented. The warrior appears much the same.

“Tsk-va!” she exclaims, lowering her sword. “You are no thrall.”

Lyr takes a shaky breath and sheaths his knife. “No. Did you…?”

“Yes.” The warrior looks grave. “I saw the sea.. and a fire. They kidnapped you in your sleep. Quite an awakening.”

“I saw you riding a dragon. Are these your people attacking the ship?”

“ _Githyanki_ , yes. We hunt the ghaik.”

“Then you know of them? Can you tell me anything about this thing in my head?”

“The ghaik use the tadpoles to reproduce. They will transform us into mind flayers.”

Lyr’s eyes widen. His voice lowers to a shocked whisper. “...What?” The chaos around them fades to a distant, surreal echo. He can feel his heart beating hard and angry against his eardrums.

A moment later, he drops to his knees and vomits.

The githyanki looks… unimpressed.

Wiping the edge of his mouth on his sleeve, Lyr tries to steady his breath:

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

No future, no past: _only now exists_.

 _“Please, friend, we must hurry!”_ the brain-creature urges, skuttling closer to nudge grotesquely at Lyr’s leg. Lyr puts out a hand to steady himself against the ship’s hull and rises to his feet.

“There has to be _something_ we can do to stop it...” Despite his efforts, his voice still sounds frantic.

“If we survive, my people can help. But first we must get free of this place. Can you fight?”

“Yes.”

The githyanki reaches back to unhook a bow and small quiver from around her shoulder. “Take these. There are imps up ahead.”

The githyanki’s warning proves accurate. Upon re-entering the ship, the imps set upon them in a wild fury, bat-like wings beating the air into hot, stinging gusts as they shriek and dive. One of them nearly catches Lyr in the face with its hooked claws before the githyanki’s sword cleaves it in two. He feels a sharp prick on the edge of his ear as the beast flails and falls, followed by a wam splash of blood on his neck. He returns the favor by shooting two of the imps out of the air in quick succession.

When the fight is over, the githyanki surveys the grisly remains and nods in satisfaction. “You are not as useless as I thought, elf.”

“I’m a half-elf,” Lyr bites back dryly. “And I have a name.”

“As do I: _Lae’zel_. I suppose you’ve earned that much.”

“Lyr.”

“Your ear is bleeding, Lyr.”

In the next room, they find more unresponsive test subjects and a set of stairs leading up to the deck. Dusky sunlight and tendrils of acrid smoke filter down from the fighting above. Lae’zel moves quickly toward the light, gesturing for Lyr to follow, but an urgent sound catches Lyr’s attention.

“Somebody help! Please! Get me out of here!” The voice is muffled, trapped within one of the alien pods. Lyr’s eyes dart toward the noise.

“One of them is awake!” He rushes toward the intact pod, ignoring Lae’zel’s hiss of protest. Behind the strange glass, a black-haired woman (another half-elf) beats her fists furiously against the hatch.

“It’s stuck tight. I can’t get it open!”

Lyr searches for a latch, a hinge, any kind of mechanism with which to open the pod… but his efforts come up empty. Out of desperation, he pulls his knife and tries to slide the blade into the seam between the hatch and the chassis, but the seal is too tight to force open.

“ _Tchk_ ,” Lae’zel snaps. “You waste time with empty heroics!”

“We can’t just _leave_ her!”

“You can do _nothing_ for her like this! First we get control of the ship, then you do as you please. What use is her freedom if we die?”

“No, _please_ ,” the woman pleads, hands pressed tight to the glass. “There has to be a way!”

As Lyr tries desperately to pry open the hatch, his eyes trail over a set of alien runes etched into the alloy. The back of his neck prickles with instinctive recognition, not of the runes themselves but of the magic they conjure. It isn’t the first time he’s tried to break into something guarded by mystical protections. The realization makes his hands go suddenly still. He raises his eyes to meet the prisoner’s, expression heavy with regret.

“There’s magic here. I can’t break it.”

Behind the glass, the woman falls quiet. Her chest rises and falls with deep, frantic breaths. Wide green eyes hold Lyr’s gaze for a long, silent moment. “Please don’t go.”

Lyr leans in close, pressing his hand flat to the outside of the hatch (as though he could touch her; reassure her.) “We have to try and save the ship. If I survive, I’ll come back for you. I _promise_.”

If.

Tearing himself away from the pod feels like an act of violence. When he reaches the stairs, he vaults past Lae’zel without a word, nocking an arrow to the string of his bow.

The scene that greets them on the deck is… chaos: imps and illithid thralls locked in wild combat as explosive turrets ward off the attacks of the githyanki dragonriders. Lyr and Lae’zel keep to the edge of the battle, occasionally downing a wayward imp that crosses their path. The brain-creature (still following at their heels) darts out ahead as another set of stairs comes into view.

_“This way! To the helm!”_

Beneath their feet, the ship gives an ominous shudder. Lyr and Lae’zel break into a run, jumping steps two at a time until they reach a long, empty corridor. At the end of the passage, Lae’zel stops short and pulls Lyr aside, fingers clamped tight around his forearm.

“Listen, we _must_ take this ship back to the material plane. Whatever happens, get to the transponder. The tadpoles in our heads allow us to speak with the ship. All you need do is connect the transmitters and issue your command.”

Lyr extricates his arm from her grasp, nodding silently. At their approach, the organic door slides back to reveal a wide, windowed control room. Within the room, a small handful of mind flayers (those yet living) fend off the attacks of the hellspawn. Bat-winged imps flap about, beating their wings against the ceiling as a massive, horned devil bellows commands and war-cries. Craning his head, Lyr can just make out the shape of the transponder at the far end of the room.

The devil has placed himself directly in front of it.

 _“Thrall!”_ An illithid voice booms within Lyr’s mind. _“Get to the controls, quickly!”_ Lyr’s eyes snap to the command’s source, setting his jaw in a fierce snarl. Instantly he has an arrow ready, arm pulled back in a taut coil of muscle.

“No!” Lae’zel hisses beside him. “Attack one, we fight them all. They believe us under their command. Let them believe it.”

A tremor runs through Lyr’s hand. With effort, he forces his arm to relax and lower the bow. Lae’zel indicates the transponder with a tip of her head. “We must hurry. The ship won’t hold much longer.” As she speaks, one of the mind flayers launches a volley of psychic assaults on the devil, drawing him into combat. Taking advantage of the distraction, Lyr bolts across the room, ducking an attack from one of the imps. Twisting around, he raises his bow and shoots an arrow through its neck. The creature gives a wet, gurgling snarl and falls to the ground.

With a roar, the devil cuts a deep gash into the mind flayer’s armor, drawing blood from the flesh beneath. The illithid stumbles back a few paces, leaving room for the devil to turn and aim a vicious strike at Lyr’s head. Lyr swerves instinctively and the blade misses by a hair, singing as it slices past his nose.

Suddenly Lae’zel is there, howling a gutteral battle cry. She hurls herself at the devil, harrying it with swift and aggressive strikes to keep its focus pinned on her. Again and again the clash of metal fills the air, but as Lyr tries to escape another group of imps descends upon him. He shoots the first before it arrives, but the other two manage to get hold of his bow and rip it in two. Cursing, Lyr draws his knife and slices the throat of the nearest imp, sending a thick spray of blood into the air. The other tries to flap out of reach, but Lyr jumps and grabs it by the foot, dragging it down to the floor. With a snarl, he stabs it hard in the chest. Its wings give one last shudder before falling still.

Nearby, Lae’zel grunts in pain as one of the devil’s heavy blows wrenches her shoulder out of place. Feeling a fresh surge of adrenaline, Lyr yanks free his knife and dives into a low crouch beneath the devil’s outstretched wing. He lashes out with brutal, precise strokes, severing the tendons in the fiend’s ankles. The devil gives a deafening roar and collapses onto its knees. Lyr manages to roll away in time to avoid a lash from its tail, but the edge of its wing catches him in the face and knocks him back against the wall. Sparks bloom behind his eyelids. Distantly he registers the sound of Lae’zel’s voice, howling in victory as she brings her sword down into the joining of the devil’s neck and shoulder.

But there’s no time to savor the victory. Already another fiend is barrelling down on them, wings stirring up great gusts of wind with its charge.

“Go!” Lae’zel shouts. Lyr pushes to his feet and runs.

Somehow he makes it. Before him, the arms of the transponder ripple and wave like fronds of seaweed in the wind. Lacking the knowledge to understand the nuances of its operation, he clumsily grasps two of the fronds, bringing them together until the delicate tendrils at the heads intertwine.

This is when everything, quite literally, goes sideways. Glass shatters inwards as the towering head of a dragon bursts through the hull. The floor tilts dramatically beneath Lyr’s feet, throwing his weight violently back as the dragon’s maw erupts into a long plume of fire. Reacting instinctively, Lyr manages to catch a firm grip on the edge of the transponder’s podium. The air above him shimmers with blistering heat, searing red marks into patches of his exposed skin. Billows of hot wind whistle past, lifting his feet bodily from the ground as the ship veers and dives toward the earth.

With his last reserves of strength, Lyr tightens his grip and hauls himself forward. Grasping the interlocking transmitters, he closes his eyes and summons a single, desperate thought:

_Home._

The ship shudders. Lyr finally loses his grip as gravity hurls him back against the wall, knocking him breathless. Bodies fly around the room like leaves, colliding with obstacles and hurtling out into the sky. The ship rocks again and suddenly he’s sliding forward.

The last thing he sees are the hard, amber eyes of the injured mind flayer, its long tentacles writhing in the wind as it grips tightly to the edge of the ship’s hull. Then something heavy and sharp hits Lyr in the back of the skull, and he’s falling…

*******

He shouldn’t be alive, but somehow the world swims back into focus. The first thing Lyr registers is the sound of water: gentle waves lapping against a sandy shoreline, and for a brief, heartbreaking moment he thinks he’s still in Baldur’s Gate.

Then he remembers.

With a snap, his eyes fly open. He scrambles to his knees, half-expecting some fresh horror to come bearing down on him. When none do, his pulse gradually begins to slow.

He’s on a beach, gazing out over a wide, crystalline-blue river. The current along the shore is calm, almost unnervingly so in the aftermath of so much violence. Behind him, a strange, metallic creak draws his attention. When he looks back, Ly is suddenly confronted with the smoking wreckage of the mind flayer vessel, its skeleton shattered and spread open like a torn carcass.

The back of his head aches sharply. Lifting a hand, he investigates the wound on his skull and finds it swollen and crusted with blood. His body is sore with fresh bruises, but there seem to be no serious injuries.

Lae’zel is nowhere in sight.

Rising to his feet, Lyr checks for his knife and finds it gone from its hilt. The world around him sways for a moment, fading in and out like a dream until his vision swims back into focus. When his limbs feel reasonably steady, he turns and climbs up the slope to the wreckage.

Inside, he finds no survivors. Among the charred remains of the dead, he locates a usable shortsword and a half-full waterskin. The latter he empties in short order, gulping down the warm, slightly acrid water until the parched dryness in his throat no longer feels so immediate. When he lowers the skin, he catches a suspicious skuttle of movement at the edge of his periphery, followed by a glimpse of pink, exposed brain tissue.

Not the survivors he was hoping for. And, as he quickly learns... no longer friendly. The quadrupedal brains rush in like attack dogs, rearing back to swipe at Lyr with their hooked foreclaws. They’re fast: faster than they look, and Lyr has to jump back quickly to avoid being hurt.

A few minutes later, he’s standing over the grisly remains of three bisected corpses, wiping his blade clean on a torn bit of fabric, when a voice calls out in the distance:

“Hello? Is anyone out there? I need help!”

Lyr twists his head around to locate the source of the call, sprinting North toward a break in the hull. Beyond the wreckage, he finds a dirt path winding uphill and follows it until a white-haired figure comes into view. When Lyr realizes who it is, he stops dead in his tracks.

“...Oh.”

The man, the _elf_ standing before him is the very same one he encountered on the beach the night before. That moment seems so long ago now: lingering echoes from another, simpler life. He looks different in the sunlight: paler, more severe. The crimson hue of his irises (were they always so red?) stands out like blood against snow.

He is still hauntingly beautiful.

“ _Oh_ , indeed,” the elf replies. Something in his voice feels wrong (cold.) “Listen, I’ve got one of those… _brain_ -things cornered. Do you think you can kill it?” He gestures toward the knotted green undergrowth beyond the path. Lyr’s eyes follow the gesture, but he can’t make out any signs of movement. A small prickle of warning crawls up the back of his neck, soft but insistent. He hesitates a moment before kneeling down to pick up a rock.

“I can try.”

But he doesn’t approach. Instead he rolls the rock in his hand, stands and tosses it into the bushes. With an agitated grunt, a large boar breaks through the greenery and gallops away.

The air displaces at his back. Instinctively Lyr tries to spin around, but it’s already too late. The cold edge of a knife presses to his throat.

“Drop it.”

Lyr exhales roughly through his nostrils. For a brief, precarious moment, he considers ignoring the command. The knuckles on his sword hand go white with tension.

“ _Drop it_.”

Lyr drops his sword.

“Good boy.” Pushing the flat of the knife hard against Lyr’s windpipe, the elf wrestles him down to the ground. Lyr remains silent throughout, fixing his attacker with a sharp, defiant stare. Beneath his back, a rock presses uncomfortably into his spine. “Shhh…” the elf warns softly. “Awfully big coincidence, us running into each other again. I saw you on the ship, waltzing about while I was trapped in that cage. Now, you are going to tell me what you and those… tentacled _freaks_ did to me.”

Another day, Lyr might have been calmer, more rational, more inclined toward caution. Right now… he is none of those things. His anger, frayed raw and coiled tight like a spring, unleashes with a sudden whip-lash. His hands fly up to grasp the elf’s arm, yanking it away with all his strength, and in the same moment he rears back and _cracks_ their foreheads together. The elf snarls a rough, surprised curse as Lyr slips from his grasp. Before he can regain his bearings, Lyr straddles his waist, grabs his wrists and slams them into the ground.

Stars of pain spark behind Lyr’s eyes. He can feel a hot sting on his neck where the knife must have nicked him, but he ignores it.

“ _I_ didn’t do _anything_ to you! They abducted me, same as you: a conclusion you could have come to just as easily _without_ putting a knife to my throat!” The elf strains and flexes his arms, lips curling back to bare sharp, angry teeth. _Fangs_. Lyr is momentarily taken aback when he notices the strange anomaly, but he isn’t given a chance to process it.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” the elf hisses. “I…”

Then the world falls away again. Lyr feels it when the tadpole twists in his skull, fresh pain blending with the persistent ache from his head injuries. His vision melts and turns black, and suddenly he’s looking out on the familiar streets of Baldur’s Gate, flickering lamps and shadows painting an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere along the walls of tightly packed buildings.

He’s hunting something, the elf. An overwhelming sensation of hunger and frustration washes over Lyr at the memory. There’s a jolt, and the image shifts to a familiar scene on the mind-flayer vessel. Then suddenly: _light_ , and a shuddering wash of terror.

Lyr feels himself pushed aside as the elf slides out from beneath him. The vision fades, and he sits back on his heels, blinking.

“What was that? What’s going on?” A soft flicker of vulnerability in the elf’s voice causes Lyr to look up. They’re crouched a few feet away from each other, and when Lyr meets his gaze the elf rises to his feet. “I saw…”

“I know. Me too.” Lyr pushes up slowly, biting back a grimace when the gravity shift makes his head throb. “It’s the tadpoles. They’re… connecting us, somehow.”

“Ah. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” The elf’s voice trails off, and for a moment something close to contrition passes over his features. “They _did_ take you. And here I was, ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

Lyr stares at him flatly. The elf winces as he lifts a hand to his forehead. “You’re scrappy, I’ll give you that.” His eyes fix on Lyr’s neck, and for a moment he seems to lose his train of thought, transfixed by some quiet fascination. “...Here.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out for Lyr to take. “It’s the least I can do.”

Lyr touches the cut on his throat. It isn’t deep, but when he lowers his hand his fingers come away streaked with blood. Somewhat warily, he steps forward and takes the cloth from the elf’s outstretched hand, pressing it to the wound. Blood seeps into the pristine fabric. Beneath it, Lyr can feel his pulse beginning to slow. “Thanks.”

The elf hums softly in acknowledgment. “It occurs to me I still don’t know your name.”

“You’re right. You don’t.”

“Well, I _could_ keep calling you ‘selkie’, but…”

The word brings back a flicker of warm, vivid memory. Juxtaposed against their current circumstances, the recollection feels… surreal. Even a bit jarring. “You know I’m not _actually_ a selkie, right?”

“There you go, ruining the fantasy.” The elf sighs, executing a smooth, elegant bow. “ _My_ name’s Astarion.”

“Lyr.”

“Lyr,” Astarion repeats, contemplative. “It suits you.”

“So I’m told. Yours is a bit of a mouthful.”

“Some would find that appealing.”

Lyr raises an eyebrow. In spite of himself, he huffs with amusement.

Astarion continues. “Now that we’re friends again, tell me… do you know anything about these worms they put in our heads?”

Lyr’s expression sobers. He’s quiet for a moment, the gravity of recent trauma weighing on his thoughts. “...Yes.” Astarion looks at him expectantly. When Lyr is unable to conjure an immediate response, the red-eyed elf’s expression turns wary.

“Bad news, I take it.”

“...They’re going to turn us into mind flayers.”

“Turn us into…” Astarion utters a sharp, unhinged laugh, eyes wide and haunted. The expression melts into a pained grimace. “Of course. Of _course_ it’ll turn me into a monster…”

“I’m sorry,” Lyr whispers.

“Do you know… how long…?”

Lyr shakes his head. “I’m looking for a githyanki I met on the ship. She said her people could remove it. That’s all I know.”

“A githyanki? Well there’s a… dubious prospect. Still, if they know anything, perhaps…” his voice trails off. Lyr watches Astarion carefully, unnerved by the speed at which he seems to process and accept their shared fate.

After a long beat of hesitation, he says, “Perhaps we should look together.”

“Hmm,” Astarion eyes him shrewdly. “I _was_ ready to go this alone, but… how can I say no to someone who says ‘please’ so enticingly?”

“I didn’t…”

“I meant last night.” Astarion cocks his head and smiles knowingly (almost coquettishly.) “Don’t tell me you forgot already...”

“I remember. I also remember your knife on my throat a few minutes ago.”

“Fair point.” Astarion exhales a long breath. Stepping forward, he lets his eyes wander down from Lyr’s face to the staunched wound on his neck. When he speaks again, his voice drops to a gentler octave. “For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry.”

For a long beat, the two watch each other in silence.

Lyr is the first to break away, leaning down to pick up his discarded sword. “We should check out the other side of the wreck...”

“As you wish,” Astarion replies. “Lead on.”

Art by [aliensundermybed](https://aliensundermybed.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Editors, [No Harm](https://youtu.be/b4UbNb5LAEA)
> 
> This chapter was pretty dense with game content. More than likely, I won't be focusing quite so much on this going forward, but the opening act was so crucial to the story that I felt I needed to give it adequate attention.


	3. Your Hand is Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,  
> You and I shall laugh together with the storm,  
> And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,  
> And we shall stand in the sun with a will,  
> And we shall be dangerous.
> 
> -Kahlil Gibran, “Defeat”

Sunlight filters down through the cracked ceiling of the wreckage, painting Astarion’s skin with luminous warmth. He pauses to soak it in, closing his eyes against the glare. Part of him wishes he could disrobe right there and bathe in it, draw the sun into his body until it takes root deep in the marrow of his bones.

He should be dead. The fact he is not is… astonishing: a dream so impossible he could never even have allowed himself to hope for it. It wasn’t long ago he’d been trapped and alone in that pod, seemingly betrayed by the first person he’d offered any real measure of kindness in… a great many years. An even more horrific fate now looms on the horizon. And yet…

Here is _the sun_ . Here is _freedom_. For centuries, he has lived his life a razor’s edge away from oblivion. Why should this be any different? Why should he cower in fear when all the world now lies beneath his feet?

Nearby, Lyr hoists himself up onto a ledge, his body working in a fluid motion. Astarion lets his focus drift away from the sun to contemplate his companion’s silhouette. As he watches, Lyr climbs up the side of a ruined pod and leans in, peering into the vacant chamber.

“Must you stop and check _every_ pod we find?”

“Someone else could have survived.”

“And unless that someone happens to be your githyanki friend, it won’t matter much in the end.”

Lyr pulls his head out of the shattered pod and drops down to sit at the end of the ledge. “I promised someone I’d come back for her. I just… need to know if she’s alive.” Balancing his weight on his arms, he swings his legs and jumps down. Astarion arches a brow dubiously.

“Well, I’m sure when we inevitably locate her charred remains, she’ll be relieved to know you kept your promise.”

Lyr flashes him a sharp look. “You can be a real ass, you know that?”

In the distance, a muted cry for help punctuates the air, followed by a series of low shouts. Lyr’s head pivots toward the commotion, posture suddenly alert. Without waiting for a reply, he jogs off to investigate, leaving Astarion to ponder the merits of their tentative alliance.

By the time he catches up, he finds Lyr engaged in an intense discussion with a trio of fisherfolk digging furiously at a pile of shrapnel.

“You must help us, please! My daughter, she’s trapped…”

“I know you believe this to be your daughter, but please, look _closer_. You’re being manipulated. This creature is a mind flayer.”

Indeed, upon closer inspection, Astarion can just make out the shape of an illithid lying prone amidst the wreckage. Desperation shines hot in the embers of its eyes.

It must be close to death.

Treading silently, Astarion approaches the group. He keeps to the periphery, avoiding unnecessary distraction as he stalks the object of his hatred. Distantly, he is aware of mounting tensions among the fisherfolk. A few more moments and they might well attack.

He approaches from behind, keeping out of view. When he draws near the beast’s head, he takes out his knife and pounces like a predatory cat, plunging his blade into the mind flayer’s eye socket. The weapon sinks deep into the creature’s brain matter, killing it instantly. Astarion snarls with satisfaction, crouching low over his kill. When he yanks the blade free, a ribbon of blood follows it.

 **_“No!”_ ** The human fisherman screams and lunges at him. Reacting quickly, Lyr jumps in his path. The two engage in a brief scuffle before the man goes suddenly still, his eyes unblinking as he stares at the mind flayer’s corpse. Astarion wipes his blade on the illithid’s robe and stands up.

“There now, _that’s_ settled.”

The fisherman works his mouth silently. When his words finally come, they sound croaked and hesitant. “I don’t… I don’t understand, I…”

Lyr tosses Astarion a look that is all at once complicated and grateful: the relief in his eyes muddied by wariness and something too subtle to pin down. He allows the fisherfolk a moment to process their circumstances (longer than Astarion would like, frankly,) then pulls the human aside to talk. Astarion is happy enough to leave him to the task. The half-elf seems to possess a greater patience for banality than he does.

Lyr manages to glean some vague information before the fishers depart to seek out their beached vessel. They scuttle away like dazed rabbits, nervously scanning the wreckage for threats. Lyr watches them, sober, as he drifts back to Astarion’s side. “He thinks there’s a settlement nearby. Likely we’re around ten days out from Baldur’s Gate.”

“I heard. Where do you think that puts us?” Astarion turns his head to regard his companion. He has to make a conscious effort to ignore the lingering stains of blood on the half-elf’s skin.

“I’m certain that’s the river Chionthar.” Lyr nods in the direction of the beach. “Gods know I’ve sailed it enough. So if we’re ten days’ out, then... Elturgard, I think.”

“Elturgard?” Astarion grimaces. “Lovely.”

Lyr paces away a few steps, crouching on the balls of his feet to gaze at the dead mind flayer. He rests his elbows on his knees and knots his hands together, leaning his face against his fists in a brooding pose. For a long moment he stays that way, silent.

Then he utters a soft, disgusted sound and turns his face away.

“Wishing I’d left you the kill?” Astarion inquires. Lyr allows a pause to elapse before he replies.

“It’s better you did it. If I’d tried, they’d have stopped me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re nearly as fast as I am. I think you could have done it.”

Lyr looks up at him quietly, dark eyes soft and pensive. In the light of day, a pale dusting of freckles are visible beneath the sun-kissed tan on the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he rises, head cocked in a challenging pose. “Nearly?”

“You got lucky once, darling. It won’t happen again.”

Lyr seems about to respond, but he’s interrupted when an unfamiliar voice calls out across the wreckage.

“Hello there!”

Astarion turns to take in the newcomer, arms folded across his chest. The man approaches from the North at a casual gait, using his staff as a walking stick.

“I must say, it’s a relief to see your faces. I was beginning to think everyone else had either perished or fled.”

Lyr takes a step closer to Astarion, his posture alert. “Were you on the ship?”

“I was, unfortunately. As were you, I take it? My name is Gale.” The man bows warmly in greeting. “Well met.”

“Lyr.”

Astarion doesn’t immediately offer his own name. “Are we taking in strays now?” When Lyr shoots him an annoyed glance, he sighs and gives an absent wave of his hand. “Astarion. Can you do any tricks with that staff of yours?”

“I can do a lot more than _tricks_.”

“Are you a wizard?” Lyr asks point-blank.

“That I am.”

“Can your magic help with these parasites?”

“I’m afraid that kind of magic is beyond even my capabilities. We need to locate a healer: a powerful one, and quickly. Before ceremorphosis begins.”

“You’re referring to the transformation?”

Gale nods. “Indeed. An excruciating process: fever, memory loss, hallucinations, blood leaking from all orifices...”

“It’s not enough they want to turn us into monsters,” Astarion interjects, his expression curling in disgust, “of course they’re going to torture us first.”

“A thing to be avoided,” Gale agrees. “Hence the need for a healer. I assume neither of you possess that sort of magic?”

“I don’t possess any sort of magic,” Lyr admits. Astarion glances over briefly, contemplating the implications of this admission.

To Gale, he replies, “I’m a high elf, darling. Magic comes naturally to us. But no… healing was never one of my talents.”

“Ah,” Gale nods. “That is unfortunate.”

“I met a githyanki on the ship who claimed she could help us,” Lyr offers. “Right now finding her seems the best course of action. You can join us, if you like.”

“Interesting,” Gale muses. “Their people do possess a wealth of knowledge on the illithids. That could be an avenue worth pursuing. Yes, I’d be glad to join you.”

“Good.” Lyr manages a small smile. “Having a wizard along might prove useful.”

They finish scouring the crash site and eventually make their way to the beach. Astarion sticks close to Lyr’s side, tossing occasional glances in Gale’s direction. He isn’t entirely sold on the wizard’s merits, but as yet the man has given no clear cause for suspicion. On the beach they run across a couple of fresh corpses laid out in the sand: more fishermen, lured to their deaths by the mind flayer’s irresistible call. Lyr follows their tracks to a small pier, where a couple of rucksacks with food and gear lie abandoned in the broken wreckage of an old row-boat.

Bad luck for the fishermen; good luck for them. Astarion hangs back on the sand, letting his gaze hover upon the sun’s bright reflection. It flickers and gleams with the movement of the current, spreading like liquid gold across the water’s surface. Lyr tosses Gale an apple and holds another up for Astarion. “Hungry?”

“I already ate,” he lies. “You take it.”

Lyr sets the pack down and takes a bite out of the apple, lowering himself to sit cross-legged at the edge of the pier. Gale wanders over to stand at his side, expounding on some dusty piece of history related to the river. Astarion mostly tunes it out. A small, irrational sting of jealousy sours his mood a bit, though whether it’s to do with the pair’s proximity to the water or to each other, he couldn’t say. Nor does he wish to analyze it.

While they talk, Astarion kneels down to inspect one of the fishermen. Blood stains the sand beneath the corpse a deep copper-red. Closing his eyes, Astarion inhales the scent of cold vitae and lets it ghost across the roof of his mouth.

Such a waste.

Almost, he reaches out and drags his fingers through the dark stain, but the creak of a wooden plank draws his attention back to his companions. Gale pulls a book out of one of the sacks, meandering closer to Astarion’s position as he flips through the pages idly. Astarion watches him for a moment, then stands and forces himself to approach the dock. The weather-worn wood dips slightly beneath his weight, seeping water from its pores.

At the end of the pier, Lyr has shifted to his knees to lean out over the river. He splashes cupped handfuls of water over his bloodied skin, rinsing away evidence of the day’s battles. Astarion treads carefully up to the edge and sits beside him. Beneath his ribs, he can feel his heart pumping rapidly with fear. In the light of day, absent Cazador’s influence, there’s something almost… thrilling about it.

He is hungry. It is both a relief and a disappointment to see the blood washed clean from Lyr’s throat.

Astarion waits until Gale is out of earshot before speaking. “We should be careful with that one. At least until we discern his motives. I don’t trust him.”

Lyr splashes water on his face and sits back, blinking droplets from his eyes. “You don’t know my motives either.”

“I know more than you think.”

“Oh?”

Astarion affects an enigmatic smile. “You’re also much prettier than he is.”

Lyr laughs softly. “Is that all it takes to win you over?”

“Oh, I’m hardly won over. Given the options, I simply prefer your company.”

“Well, don’t worry. Trust isn’t something I give out easily. To anyone.”

“I’ll pretend not to read into that.” Astarion leans into Lyr’s space, inspecting the contours of the half-elf’s profile. His gaze catches on an angry scratch slanting across the folds of Lyr’s sharp-tipped ear. Instinctively Astarion reaches for it, halting midway in an aborted gesture. “You missed a bit, here.”

Lyr looks silently at Astarion’s hand. After a beat, he touches the wound on his ear (as though only just remembering it was there.) “Thanks.”

“There’s a bit in your hair, too. In the back.”

Lyr shifts to lie on his stomach, stretching his torso out over the water. He turns his head and wets his hair, combing his fingers through it until they come away clean. A bit of scrubbing at his ear and the last traces of blood disappear into the river. For a moment he stays like this, eyes closed, trailing his fingers through the water. A shadow of weariness comes over him.

Then a woman’s voice echoes down the beach: _“Damn it!”_

Lyr’s body shoots up into a crouch, water dripping down his clothes. He pushes the hair back from his face and tilts his head like an animal, listening and alert. “I know that voice…” Springing to his feet, he shoulders his pack and gestures for Astarion to follow. “Come on.”

“So bossy,” Astarion demurs, though he does as he’s bid, pushing up to stand in a fluid motion. Over on the beach, Gale shuts his book with a snap.

“Friend of yours?”

Lyr looks at him, frowning slightly, and shakes his head. He doesn’t bother trying to articulate a clearer response. When his feet touch sand he breaks into a run, gripping the shoulder straps of his pack tightly to keep it secured. Astarion watches his rapidly diminishing form with a deadpan expression. “If he expects us to run after him, he’s going to be very disappointed.”

They follow Lyr’s tracks up the beach until an old, seemingly abandoned temple looms into view. Lyr stands at the base of the temple’s stairs, hands propped at his hips as he speaks with a dark-haired woman dressed in cleric’s armor: another half-elf, and a pretty one at that. The two appear to be engaged in an intense discussion, but their hushed words break off when they spot Astarion and Gale approaching.

“You certainly keep interesting company,” Gale observes, ducking his head in a bow of greeting. “Should we make introductions?” The woman’s eyes linger silently on Lyr’s face before she offers her name.

“Shadowheart.” Her gaze shifts to take in the wizard, sizing him up with a sharp stare before moving on to Astarion. A slight tip of her head suggests a moment of curiosity, but whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t voice it. Astarion meets her gaze calmly, arching a brow in silent challenge. Beside him, Gale continues to speak.

“A woman with shadows for eyes: deep as the Darklake… a pleasure, madam. My name is Gale, wizard of Waterdeep.”

Astarion shoots a conspiratorial glance at Lyr, who appears to be biting back an amused expression. Astarion gives a subtle roll of his eyes and lifts a hand to inspect his nails. “Astarion.” Shadowheart regards the three of them.

“A pleasure, is it? We’ll see.”

Lyr clears his throat. “We were just discussing our limited resources. We’ve been dropped here without food or gear. What we found at the dock will help, but it’s not much. I’ve no coins on me, no armor and only this one weapon. At some point we’ll need to make camp and cook a proper meal. I don’t know where Lae’zel is, but we’re ten days out from Baldur’s Gate, so whether we find her or not we’ve got a journey ahead of us. We have to start thinking long term. Even if… we may not survive that long. Shadowheart thinks there might be some halfway decent loot in this place. I’m… not thrilled at the prospect of a delay, to be honest. But if we can scrounge up anything valuable, we could do some trading at the settlement those fisherman spoke of. Perhaps we’ll even find Lae’zel there.”

“Or a healer,” Shadowheart interjects. “It’s unwise to place our trust in the gith. Surely there are better alternatives.”

“If you find one,” Lyr replies, voice sharp with irritation, “be sure to let us know.”

Gale sets the end of his staff against the stone step and leans there, contemplative. “I must admit, I am curious to see what’s inside this place. Given the circumstances, a supply run isn’t a bad idea.”

Astarion sighs. “There had better be something interesting in there. I’m not keen on spending my final moments wandering aimlessly through dusty old ruins.”

Shadowheart glances back at the temple’s entrance. The doors there are heavy and reinforced. Even aged as they are, they appear quite solid. “Of course, this is all moot if we can’t get inside. I’ve tried the lock. It won’t budge.”

“Perhaps we should look around for another entrance?” Gale offers.

“Hang on,” Lyr interrupts. “Let me give it a try.” He bends down to fish something out of the inside of his boot, procuring a slim roll of leather that Astarion immediately recognizes as a lockpicking kit. Intrigued, Astarion moves closer, climbing the steps to stand with one hip against the stone wall. Lyr crouches by the door, unrolling his kit to extract the necessary tools. Astarion notes the ease and familiarity with which he handles the instruments. The half-elf cocks his head and peers into the keyhole, seemingly oblivious to the quiet, focused attention of those around him. He leans an ear against the door and works the tools in the lock, listening for the click of the tumblers. The movements of his hands are nimble and precise, applying careful pressure while his picks explore the inner workings of the ancient mechanism. Frowning, he stops for a moment, leaning back to give the latch a quick, precise strike with the palm of his hand. Something seems to shake loose, and his picks slide home with an audible _click_.

“It’s a bit rusty,” he explains, withdrawing his tools. “But…” He gets to his feet and steps back, drawing open the door with a satisfied expression.

“Well,” Shadowheart observes. “You’re quite handy.”

“Indeed,” Gale agrees. “Where’d you learn to pick a lock like that?”

“Misspent youth,” Lyr replies cryptically. Astarion prowls over to the breached doorway, surveying the contents of the darkened chamber with a careful, measuring gaze. The room appears to be some manner of crypt. Inside, a gossamer film of dust and cobwebs coats a handful of ancient sarcophagi.

“I should very much like to hear about this ‘misspent youth.’”

“Perhaps I’ll tell you some day.”

*******

The temple turns out to be a worthwhile but significantly more involved diversion than initially assumed. Astarion and Lyr spend an inordinate amount of time disarming a set of meticulously laid traps, but they manage to unearth some weapons, gold and a few valuable items from the crypt. Beyond that room, they find a grand chamber with ancient, moss-covered ruins and an altar to a forgotten god. They also find a group of thieves.

Astarion is only too happy to eliminate the competition. Lyr’s reaction is far more ambivalent. He tries, at first, to talk the thieves down; even offers to share the loot with them, despite Astarion’s open disapproval. In the end it doesn’t matter. Greed is a stubborn and powerful demon.

Given his show of temperance, Astarion expects Lyr to hesitate.

He doesn’t.

Astarion witnesses the exact moment when the change occurs: when an arrow cuts past Lyr’s face and his eyes darken like a snuffed candle. It’s a look that Astarion knows well: the cold, animal certainty of impending violence.

A moment later, Lyr’s new dagger whistles across the room and strikes the archer clean in the hollow of his throat.

It’s a beautiful throw. For a split second, Astarion wants to grab Lyr by the neck and kiss him.

The battle is quick and brutal. Astarion’s blade cuts through a seam in the warrior’s armor and plunges straight to his heart. Gale summons a bolt of crackling energy to strike down the opposing wizard. Lyr leaps atop the back of another fighter, sinking both his swords deep into the man’s torso. Shadowheart burns the remaining thief to ashes with a blaze of holy fire.

Afterwards, Lyr stands over the leader’s corpse and surveys the carnage. Faint tremors run through his blood-stained hands. Astarion’s own blood is pumping hard, predatory adrenaline coursing through his veins. The smell in the room is intoxicating.

Lyr’s mouth curls in disgust. “What a fucking waste.”

They strip the corpses of anything valuable and stow the bulk of it in an empty sarcophagus for safe keeping. Lyr appropriates a set of leather armor from the archer and straps it on over his shirt.

The temple’s remaining rooms house a few useful trinkets and a small library of ancient texts. Gale surveys the dusty shelves with intrigue, pausing here and there to withdraw a tome and flip through its pages. He steals an armful of the more interesting volumes, storing them carefully in his pack as they continue on.

Back in the main chamber, Shadowheart pauses to study the altar, running fingers over the worn plaque. Astarion leans his weight against a wall nearby, toying idly with one of his daggers. His eyes drift across moss-covered stones, following the green growth until a hairline crack in the masonry catches his attention. Upon further inspection, the crack reveals a small switch set into the wall.

Curious, Astarion combs over the area, scraping away moss until he comes across the outline of a hidden door.

After a moment of deliberation, he presses the switch.

The door slides free with a slow, sepulchral scrape. Moments later, the lids of the nearby sarcophagi push themselves open to reveal the eerie, skeletal faces of animate corpses. The undead guardians rattle and hiss, scuttling free of their caskets.

“...Well, shit,” Astarion curses.

By the end of the fight, they’re all exhausted. The ground is littered with skeletal remains, broken and charred and smashed into dust. Gale bears the worst of the injuries: a long, blistering burn winding the length of his arm. Thankfully, Shadowheart proves a capable healer. As she tends to Gale’s burn, Astarion walks over to sit beside Lyr on one of the stone benches. The half-elf slouches over, clutching at a puncture wound in his shoulder. Blood seeps beneath his armor to form a slow drip over the bones of his hand. For a moment, Astarion feels uncharacteristically hesitant to speak.

“I checked for traps, but I missed the enchantment. It was… an oversight. I’m sorry.”

“What was that?” Shadowheart cuts in from across the room. “I’m not sure we heard you correctly. Perhaps you should speak up.” Her voice sounds clipped and angry.

Astarion clenches his jaw. When the urge to bare his teeth begins to fade, he repeats louder, “I’m sorry.”

“Any of us could have done it,” Lyr points out wearily. “We came here to investigate. That comes with risks.” He looks up at Astarion. “Just warn us next time.”

Once Gale is recovered, Shadowheart invokes her healing prayer on Lyr’s wounds. The lengthy concentration seems to drain her, but her magic does its trick.

“Well…” Lyr gets to his feet, turning to offer Astarion a hand up. “I suppose we ought to check out that room.” Astarion glances at the hand before taking it, using Lyr’s arm as leverage to lift himself from the bench. He doesn’t need the help, but such companionable contact is rare in his life. Rare enough to feel like a luxury. Lyr makes a small, thoughtful sound and looks down to where their palms are joined. “Your hand is cold.”

Astarion retracts his arm quickly.

The hidden room is spare and underwhelming. Its only treasure, a solitary, gilded sarcophagus, sits gleaming upon a dais at the front of the alcove. Crouching beside the steps of the dais, Shadowheart reads aloud an inscription from its plaque:

“ _Here lies the guardian of tombs_.”

“Well,” Gale muses, “that sounds rather ominous.” For a moment they all go silent. Lyr climbs the steps and runs a hand along the seam of the tomb. He checks the coffin diligently, still wary from the recent ambush. When no traps or triggers are revealed, he places his palms on the lid.

“We’ve come this far. May as well see what those things were guarding.”

Setting his shoulders against the hefty weight of the sarcophagus, he pushes until the lid slides free. Almost immediately, the musty, sweet smell of mummified remains begins to permeate the room. With a start, Lyr reels back and jumps free of the dais. A moment later, a bandaged, skeletal hand grasps the rim of the vault and the desiccated face of an undead priest rises into view. It hoists itself free of the coffin with little fanfare and comes to stand on the steps, peering down at them with cool, limpid eyes.

“So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always. What a curious way to awaken.”

“Pardon our ignorance,” Gale steps forward to address the priest. “But who might you be? And who is this ‘he’ that you speak of?”

“I am but a scribe. He is… an arbiter of certain matters, but that is not important now.” The scribe’s gaze passes over each of their faces. “I have a question for thee, if thou will answer. What is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

“To whom?” Lyr asks. The scribe regards him calmly.

“Does it matter?”

“A person deemed worthless by society might still hold a great deal of value to their family. Or do you mean… in the universal sense?”

The scribe remains impassive. “Do I?”

“All life holds the same value to the earth and the stars. Commoner or king, one is not worth more than any other.”

Astarion scoffs, but the scribe hums his assent. “In death, that is so.” For a moment he seems lost in contemplation. When his eyes clear, he moves to step down from the dais, robes billowing like smoke in his wake. “Very well. I am satisfied. We have met, and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. But first, know this…” The priest pauses to regard them all in unison. “Thou art touched by the void. Take care it does not consume thee.”

With that, the corpse drifts from the room, leaving them to ponder the strange encounter with varying degrees of frustration.

“Well _that_ was fucking useless,” Astarion snaps.

*******

By the time they exit the temple, evening has descended over the horizon, draping the landscape in burnished sunset hues. They carry as much loot as they can manage, stuffed tightly inside their stolen packs. Prevailing sentiments among the group are of hunger and exhaustion and a latent, unspoken fear of the unknown future.

They find a good place to make camp further downriver, past the crash site and into a calm, secluded section of woods. Gale and Shadowheart fashion bedrolls with hides appropriated from the dead thieves while Lyr assembles a fire. Astarion takes a seat on a fallen log, watching the rising flames dance and lick hungrily at the darkening sky. When the others settle in, they divvy up their food haul: stale bread and cheese, apples and smoked links of sausage. Lyr carries a portion of the food over to Astarion, holding the items grasped precariously within each of his hands. “Here. You should eat.”

“Honestly, I… don’t think I can. Not just now, at least.” It’s a bad lie, and one he won’t be able to use much longer, but the thought of having to vomit all of that food back up again brings a sour taste to his mouth. He expects Lyr to fight him on it (he seems the type,) but the half-elf simply stands there, examining him in silence. After a moment, he lowers his hands.

“It’s been a rough day,” he admits quietly. “I’ll save some for you, when you want it. You’ll need to replenish your strength at some point.”

Despite the humble nature of the meal and the pressing weight of anxiety hanging above their heads, the food is devoured quickly. Astarion excuses himself for a walk, preferring to avoid whatever questions his companions might direct his way. He makes a loop around the camp, quietly stalking the small woodland creatures that happen across his path. Lyr was right about one thing: he _does_ need to eat. And soon. But hunting in the woods is not at all like hunting in the city, and by the time he returns he’s no better off than he was when he left.

The sky is dark with night’s embrace. Already Gale is fast asleep in his bedroll, no doubt exhausted from the day’s events. Nearby, Shadowheart appears to be jotting down notes in a small book. Her expression is hard and anxious, her posture tense. Lyr is nowhere to be seen.

“You seem concerned,” Astarion observes, dropping down to sit lotus-style on the soft hide of his own bedroll. Shadowheart snaps her book closed and stares at him.

“We’re wasting time. The tadpoles aren’t going to just sit around and wait until we’re ready.”

“Indeed they won’t. But what, pray tell, do you suggest we do in the meantime? Wander about until we drop from exhaustion?”

“At least then we’d be doing something.”

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. But none of us have sprouted tentacles yet, so you may as well at least _try_ to get some rest. I hear that’s a thing you half-elves need.”

“What about us half-elves?” Lyr walks into the firelight, barefoot and shirtless. Once again his hair is damp. He looks freshly bathed, all evidence of recent battles washed away.

“I merely suggested the two of you might want to get some rest.” Astarion pauses to consider the play of light and shadow across Lyr’s face. As he watches, a drop of water traces its way down the curve of Lyr’s throat and lands in the groove of his collarbone. “Are you ever _not_ wet?”

Lyr sits down on his bedroll, drawing his knees to his chest. “I needed to wash the blood off.”

“A shame I missed that.”

Lyr doesn’t reply. Across the fire, Shadowheart settles in to rest, curling up with her back to the flames and a thin deerskin hide draped over her form. The atmosphere in the camp grows still and heavy with silence.

After a time, Lyr turns his face and says, “You should try to rest, too.”

“Oh, I’ll be up a while yet. I need some time to process… all of this.” Astarion gestures loosely around the camp, then grazes the tips of his fingers over his temple. Somehow, speaking about the tadpole seems to give it more weight. Absent the light of day and its myriad distractions, Astarion finds his buoyant mood dampened.

How long can they continue like this? How long until the tadpoles turn them into monsters?

How long until Cazador finds him?

It is not a question of _if_. Thinking otherwise would be like trying to wish away the moon. Astarion feels his stomach clench as a cold shiver licks its way up his spine. In an effort to divert his attention, he turns his focus back on Lyr. “What about you? You must be exhausted.”

Lyr shakes his head. “I can’t sleep right now.” The muscles in his back and shoulders are coiled with tension, lending his folded posture a springlike quality, as though at any moment he might explode into a fighting stance.

“You know…” Astarion muses, attempting to lighten the mood, “If you want to spend time with me, all you have to do is ask.” Caught briefly off-guard, Lyr raises his eyebrows and utters a soft, surprised laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I must admit, this is all a bit new to me. The night usually means bustling streets; bursting taverns. Curling up in the dirt and resting is…” Astarion surveys the camp with a pinched expression. “A little novel.”

“You’ve never had to sleep outside before?” Lyr’s tone sounds skeptical.

“Oh, I rarely _sleep_ anywhere. But to answer your question, I’ve rested outdoors once or twice. Nothing like this, though. I don’t leave the city much, and I prefer to save my nights for other activities.”

“Such as strolling the beach on horseback?”

Astarion laughs. “No. You caught me on a rare evening.”

Lyr curls forward and rests the side of his face against his knee, watching Astarion from a slanted view. The pose makes him look younger, even a little vulnerable. “So what is it that you do in Baldur’s Gate that enables you to escape the indignity of resting in the dirt?”

“Oh, I’m a magistrate. But you don’t want to hear about that. It’s all dreadfully boring.”

Lyr straightens up, suddenly agitated. “You’re a…” But after a moment he trails off, shaking his head. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“Not even a little.”

“Darling, I’m wounded.” Astarion places his hand over his heart in feigned indignation. “Why the distrust?”

“A magistrate wouldn’t have the time, let alone the inclination, to learn to disarm traps or wield a blade with even half your proficiency. They hire people to do that kind of work.”

Astarion has to admit he’s right on that count. “And what is it that _you_ do that gave you such skills?”

“I’m a sailor. Part of a tradeship crew.”

“A sailor who can pick locks and kill a man at 13 paces with a thrown knife?”

“Yes.”

“I believe those are called ‘pirates,’ my dear.”

Lyr gives a soft, bitter laugh. “Tried that. It didn’t work out.”

“Oh?” Astarion waits for Lyr to continue, but the half-elf seems disinclined to speak further. “I suppose someone with your morals would find that lifestyle distasteful.”

“And what would you know of my morals?”

“Hah!” Astarion has to suppress the bubble of laughter that wants to spill from his mouth. “Listen, I’ve seen a _lot_ of violence. I know what it looks like when someone enjoys killing. You don’t.”

Lyr exhales quietly. Crossing his ankles, he tightens the grip of his arms around his knees. “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

Lyr cuts him a warning glance. “Why?”

“Why shouldn’t you enjoy something you’re good at?”

Something passes across Lyr’s face: a shadow of some dark, engulfing memory. Astarion can only guess at its nature, but he recognizes the change in the half-elf’s eyes. It’s a look he’s seen often enough.

_(Here there be dragons.)_

Lyr pushes his fingers back through his hair, rifling the damp curls, and presses his forehead against his knees. In a strained, muffled voice he says, “Please stop talking.”

Astarion does.

Sinking into an irritable silence, his mind turns once more toward hunger. He considers slinking off to the woods again, but to do so now would raise suspicion. Absent much in the way of options, he shuts his eyes and settles into a meditative pose.

Then he waits.

Time ticks by at a crawl. The fire pops and cracks as it gradually devours its fuel. Somewhere in the woods, an owl gives a haunting cry. Frustrated, Astarion narrows his focus and listens to the muted pulse of Lyr’s heartbeat. It drums out a quick, irregular rhythm, defying any hope of rest.

Finally, Astarion gives in and opens his eyes. Lyr hasn’t moved from his position, though his pose seems slightly more relaxed: arms draped loose around his legs as he stares darkly into the fire.

Astarion sighs. “It was not my intention to upset you, Lyr.”

The silence stretches uncomfortably before Lyr says, “I know.”

Astarion lifts his hands in a show of surrender. “Peace offering?” Lyr glances at him warily, head cocked with a shadow of grudging curiosity. “I have something that might help you sleep.”

“What, like a potion?”

“Sadly no. I was thinking of something more… mundane.” Astarion rises to his feet and paces over to Lyr’s bedroll. “May I sit?” Lyr considers his request a moment before nodding. Astarion drops down to his knees beside him. He weighs his next words carefully, conscious of the fragile nature of their camaraderie. “This involves physical contact, so if that’s not something you want right now…” he trails off, giving Lyr space to clarify his boundaries.

Lyr raises an eyebrow. Astarion sets a hand over his own heart.

“Completely innocent, I swear.”

Lyr turns and rests an elbow on his knee, propping his chin up with his fist. He fixes Astarion with a long, unreadable gaze. The dark of his irises reflect glimmers of firelight. “Alright.”

Astarion shifts forward and resettles at Lyr’s back, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of his body. Lyr watches closely from the corner of his eye until Astarion leans in and taps him on the shoulder. “Face forward.”

Lyr drops his arm and turns to face the fire. Under his breath, he murmurs, “So bossy.” Astarion huffs with amusement at the callback.

“Let me know if I should stop.” He hesitates a moment, suddenly overcome by a nameless weight, then slowly rests his hands on Lyr’s shoulders.

The moment he makes contact, Lyr gives a small, sudden gasp and jolts away. Astarion freezes. After a beat, Lyr exhales a breathy laugh. “You and your cold hands.” He twists around and grasps one of Astarion’s hands between his own. “Here…”

It’s strangely shocking, this casual intimacy. Lyr’s hands envelope Astarion’s like a cocoon, shedding heat into his skin. Astarion accepts the contact without protest, watching the moment unfold with a blend of wary fascination. Drawing Astarion’s hand to his mouth, Lyr ducks his head and breathes a warm gust of air through the space between his fingers. It blooms across Astarion’s skin like a kiss and sinks deep into his bones.

When he’s satisfied, Lyr repeats the ritual with Astarion’s other hand. Then he turns and leans into his knees, making a pillow of his forearms to rest his head upon. “Try again.”

Astarion looks down at his hands, as though half-expecting them to glow. Strange, old memories tumble through his head like leaves, paper-thin and transient: _his mother, warming his hands in the snow; an auburn-haired boy slowly tracing his knuckles..._

Carefully, he molds his palms to the shape of Lyr’s shoulders, testing the firm, knotted muscle beneath his skin. “Better?”

Lyr hums softly in assent. Astarion kneads his thumbs into unyielding tissue, mapping out tension points around the base of Lyr’s neck. He follows these points like ley-lines, applying careful pressure as he goes. A particularly stubborn knot to the left of Lyr’s spine elicits a muted hiss of pain when Astarion presses into it. He eases up a little in response, working the flesh in slow, alternating motions. When he feels the tension begin to ease, he digs in hard with his thumb, rolling tight circular patterns into the muscle.

Lyr lets slip a delicate, throaty sound. Astarion runs his tongue between his lips and smiles.

It takes a long time to work out the tension along Lyr’s shoulders. All the while, the ache of Astarion’s hunger is there, humming through his veins like a tuning fork. Lyr’s skin is warm and soft, the rush of blood through his veins an inescapable distraction at such close proximity. With every breath, his lungs expand and contract like a bellows. Even at rest, he is so beautifully alive.

Astarion slides his hands further down Lyr’s back, working at the muscles along his spine. As before, he is gentle at first, building gradually to deeper pressure. He drops his hands low, pressing into Lyr’s lower back, and glides firmly up the length of his vertebrae. The motion is repeated until he feels Lyr relax and sag forward. Fanning his fingers out, Astarion uses his palms to work over the rest of Lyr’s back, memorizing the shape and texture of his muscles. He isn’t surprised to find a few thin scars as well: blade wounds, from the look of them. One cuts across Lyr’s shoulder blade. Another sits just over his left hip.

At last, Lyr exhales a long, loose sigh. Astarion knows he could stop here if he chose. Instead he raises his hands to Lyr’s neck and rolls the pads of his fingers over the delicate muscles at the base of Lyr’s skull. “Lift up a little.” Lyr utters a soft sound and raises his head from his arms.

Leaning forward, Astarion slides his hands into Lyr’s hair, massaging over his scalp. The dark locks coil softly around Astarion’s fingers as he cards through them. He glides past the hairline to the top of Lyr’s forehead, then down to his temples, where he massages in slow, gentle circles until Lyr’s eyes flutter shut and he utters another exhausted sigh.

“You’re being suspiciously nice to me,” he murmurs.

Astarion clicks his tongue delicately. “There’s that distrust again.” He allows his hands to drift down over Lyr’s neck, caressing the soft skin with the backs of his knuckles. “Perhaps I just like you.”

Lyr doesn’t respond, but his body gives a barely detectable shiver. When Astarion begins to withdraw, Lyr’s hand rises to grasp his, holding it firmly against the bend in his shoulder. Astarion tips his head and looks down at the place where their hands are joined. The flesh of Lyr’s trapezius is warm beneath his palm.

They stay like this for a long, silent beat. Then Lyr releases him, letting the moment pass without comment or explanation.

Reluctantly, Astarion gets to his feet. “I’ll let you rest.” He walks over to his bedroll and settles in, stretching out on his back with arms folded beneath his head. The sky above is vast and clear, darkness blanketed by a sea of brilliant stars.

Nearby, Lyr slips down into his own bedroll, arranging the hides to partially cover his recumbent form. The silence in the camp grows heavy. Astarion closes his eyes and listens to the steady beat of Lyr’s heart as it slows to a gentle rhythm.

“Astarion?” Lyr’s voice is low and muffled.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t hurt anyone while I’m asleep.”

Astarion opens his eyes, turning his head to regard Lyr carefully. “And if I do?”

“Just don’t.”

“Well _you’re_ no fun,” Astarion teases gently. Lyr holds his eyes for a moment, then gives a bone-deep sigh and tucks his head into the crook of his arm.

Within moments he’s asleep.

Astarion waits cautiously, letting the fire sink down to coals. When he’s certain he won’t be overheard, he rolls silently to his feet and slips off into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Agnes Obel, [Stretch Your Eyes](https://youtu.be/N0mV1raPQ3o)
> 
> Not sure it actually counts as hurt/comfort when dubious motives are involved, but I added the tag anyway. It'll become more (genuinely) relevant later on.
> 
> I realized belatedly that I forgot to tag for plot spoilers, so that's been added (sorry about that.)
> 
> Regarding vampire physiology: I don't own any D&D books, so I had to do some googling to try and figure out how they work in this universe. The only really useful piece of info I found was that vampires can theoretically get someone pregnant if they've consumed enough blood. Which... has loads of physiological implications. So I decided to take a cue from a few other vampire myths and assume that vampires in Faerûn become more life-like as they consume blood, and more corpse-like as they go hungry. Also, I don't think it makes sense for them not to have a heartbeat. They'd still need to have some kind of circulatory system. (It's possible I'm overthinking this.)
> 
> Now that I'm a few chapters in, I have a better sense of how my update schedule is likely to pan out. I write daily (minus a few here and there), but I only have an hour or two per day of decent writing conditions, and I tend to write pretty slow because perfectionism. So new chapters will likely arrive once a month, give or take a few days depending on length, how busy I am, etc. I wish I could post more often, but sadly that is not in the cards. I am really enjoying this fic though!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented, left kudos, etc. Your feedback means a lot to me. <3
> 
> P.S. I'm on [tumblr](https://darkest-fluid.tumblr.com/) now!


	4. Where Are You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are names for what binds us:  
> strong forces, weak forces.  
> Look around, you can see them:  
> the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,  
> nails rusting into the places they join,  
> joints dovetailed on their own weight.  
> The way things stay so solidly  
> wherever they’ve been set down—  
> and gravity, scientists say, is weak.
> 
> -Jane Hirshfield, “For What Binds Us”

The ocean’s surface heaves with tempestuous waves, tossing white spray against the storm-dark sky. Lyr fights to stay afloat, gasping each time his head breaches water, but the crush of the tide is constant and overwhelming. A wall of blue crashes over him, flinging his body beneath the waves. Buffeted about by the current, something grasps him by the ankle and drags him under, pulling him down into the yawning, frigid darkness. In a panic, he tries to shake the thing loose, fighting against the drag with powerful strokes of his arms.

His efforts change nothing. Perhaps the ocean itself pulls him under: a sacrifice for Umberlee. As he sinks, the blackness of the abyss unfurls like a mist and swallows him.

Devours him.

The grip on his ankle vanishes. For a long time, Lyr floats there in silence, surrounded by this primal void. Then he feels it: the cold disturbance of some vast beast moving through the water. Ancient sediment drifts up from the sea bed: shifting fines that settle in the small hairs on Lyr’s arms. Suddenly he remembers the need for breath. The burn of suffocation flares in his lungs, forcing him to clamp a hand over his mouth. His chest convulses once, twice…

But the darkness grows so cold. It seeps into his flesh like an embrace, sinking past skin and bone. Frost blooms over his heart as his body gives a violent shudder.

Something huge and unfathomable slides through the tenebrous depths, coiling its great body like a serpent.

A voice echoes through his mind: _“...Where are you?”_

Gasping, Lyr opens his eyes to the dawn.

The first rays of morning light diffuse across the dark blue sky, peaking in a golden glow at the edge of the horizon. Lyr can just make out glimpses of the rising sun behind the trees. Throwing back the hide, he rolls onto his back and breathes, devouring deep, greedy lungfuls of air until the lingering grip of panic begins to recede. With a shaky hand, he clutches the flesh above his heart, counting spaces between each breath. The drum of his pulse becomes a grounding tether beneath his palm, rooting him to his body.

Gradually he sits up, surveying the camp with quiet trepidation. He finds Astarion asleep in his bedroll, stretched out with one arm crooked beneath the tousled locks of his hair. A delicate line of tension mars the space between his eyebrows. Occasionally a muscle in his face twitches, as though in response to some unpleasant dream.

Across the clearing, Gale shifts in his sleep. A half-slurred incantation tumbles past his lips, fragmented and unrecognizable. Shadowheart’s bed lies empty. The sound of muffled splashing by the river suggests her presence nearby.

It would appear they’ve all survived the night.

Lyr rises to a crouch and crawls lightly over the leaf-strewn ground, coming to rest on his knees beside Astarion’s prone form. In sleep, the elf’s features are soft and vulnerable. The dark fans of his eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings against his cheeks. He makes a soft, pained sound in his throat. Watching, Lyr feels a quiet ache of empathy.

In the light of day, the events of last night seem dreamlike and surreal. The ghost of Astarion’s touch still lingers in his thoughts, drawing phantom sensations along his skin.

A complicated intimacy, one that Lyr knows well not to trust.

“Astarion…”

The elf’s hand twitches.

 _“Astarion,”_ Lyr repeats, louder. Suddenly the elf shoots up, rearing back with wild eyes and a sharp snarl of fangs. Lyr immediately scurries aside, widening the space between them. He lifts both hands to show he’s unarmed, forcing his voice to remain calm. “Hey, hey... it’s alright. You were dreaming. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“The _hell_ did you mean to do, then?!” Astarion snaps, breathing hard. His eyes dart quickly around the camp, anxious and hypervigilant. Lyr allows him a moment to process, suppressing the urge to respond to his anger. Haunted vestiges of fear linger in Astarion’s eyes. For Lyr, the nuances are familiar.

“ _Shit_ ,” Astarion breathes, running a hand through his hair. “I fell asleep?” Lyr nods. Astarion growls softly, sitting back against the log behind his bedroll. “Well? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Lyr says quietly. “You just… it looked like you were having a bad dream. I didn’t want to just leave you like that.”

Astarion looks at him, tension evident in the set of his features. “Well,” he replies, “aren’t you sweet.” But the tone of his voice is clipped; almost mocking. Lyr furrows his brows, frowning softly.

Nearby, Gale stirs in his sleep. Lyr glances at the wizard, then pushes slowly to his feet. “There’s food in my pack, if you want it.” He doesn’t imagine Astarion will take him up on that offer, but he makes it nonetheless. Whatever his suspicions, now isn’t the moment to voice them.

Allowing Astarion some privacy, Lyr heads into the woods to relieve his bladder. Along the way he snaps a twig from one of the trees and uses it to clean his teeth, gnawing lightly on the end until the fibers fray. Afterwards he heads down to the water, retracing the path to the rocks where he’d left his clothes to dry. The bloodstains on his shirt, scrubbed and faded to patches of pale rust, draw his eye immediately.

He’ll need to find a sewing kit to repair the hole in the shoulder.

Glancing up, he catches sight of Shadowheart, her armor discarded, black hair loose and gathered in a damp wave over one shoulder. She picks her way through the rocks toward him, footsteps muted beneath the rushing sigh of the river. As she draws near, her eyes slide over his torso, hovering a moment before she makes the conscious gesture to look away. “We should be on our way soon.”

“We will.” Lyr picks up his shirt and shakes it out, slipping it on over his head. “Astarion’s up. Gale seemed close when I left.” He smooths a hand over the rough fabric, pausing to observe the subtle tension in Shadowheart’s posture. “Did you sleep alright?”

Shadowheart’s gaze darts up, her expression cold. “I slept well enough. Despite the distractions.” Lyr watches her a moment in silence.

“I’m sorry if we kept you up.”

Shadowheart’s mouth turns up in a soft smirk. “I don’t think it’s me you should be worried about.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Will you? Somehow I doubt it.”

*******

When Lyr arrives back at camp, he finds an atmosphere heavy with unspoken thoughts. Gale, now awake, sits with a book in his lap and a barely-touched apple in one hand, largely ignoring both. His dark eyes drift from the blackened fire pit to some distant point on the horizon, staring pensively through the trees. Shadowheart leans against a large boulder, consuming her breakfast in neat, efficient bites. A few meters out from the clearing, Astarion rests with his back against the trunk of a broad oak, his body turned so that most of his features are obscured. Everything about his body language suggests he wants to be left alone.

Lyr can relate.

Sitting down to his own breakfast, he’s unsurprised to find his remaining food present and intact. Whatever Astarion is eating (if anything,) he’s keeping it to himself. Lyr knows what that means. _Has_ known, really, since that first flash of fangs at the crash site, though the implications seem impossible. Vampires cannot survive the sun.

The thought drags forth a wave of old, unwanted memories.

Across the clearing, Gale gives a sudden start. “Ah, I think I’ve found something!” Lyr looks up, his muscles tense with phantom pain.

“What did you find?”

“Here, look at this…” Gale climbs to his feet and crosses the clearing, carrying the book open in his hand. The fog of distraction has vanished from his eyes, replaced by a gleam of sharpened focus. When he reaches Lyr’s side, he lowers to sit beside him, absently smoothing his robe. “I believe this passage refers to the scribe we awoke in the crypt.” Gale passes the book to Lyr, tapping his finger against the page. “If so, he is no ordinary scribe, but the seneschal of Kelemvor himself: Jergal.”

Lyr skims over the words, his thoughts still half-preoccupied. “You’re suggesting we just exhumed an old god?”

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“Hold on,” Shadowheart interjects, approaching from the other side. She drops down next to Lyr and leans over, stealing the book from his grasp. “Let me see this.” Her eyes bore into the page, darting across the passage once, then twice.

The sudden proximity ignites a familiar discomfort. Feeling boxed in, Lyr quickly extricates himself from between the two.

“Well,” Shadowheart concludes, “this is certainly an… _interesting_ development. What do you suppose he meant about meeting us ‘at the proper time and place?’”

“Perhaps he thinks we’re going to die,” Lyr states darkly. He finds a place to sit on the log nearby, glancing over his shoulder at Astarion. Behind the tree, the elf’s head is cocked in an alert pose.

“Perhaps,” Gale replies, frowning. “His parting advice _was_ rather ominous.”

“Only if you interpret ‘the void’ as something to be feared,” Shadowheart notes. “Small minds are always afraid of the unknown.”

Gale hums in consideration. “A fair point, though considering our circumstances…”

“Considering our circumstances,” Astarion interrupts, rising from the ground, “we should stop worrying about some dusty old crypt-keeper and get a move on, before we all start sprouting tentacles.”

*******

They decide to head North, following a winding road past the edge of the forest and into an open stretch of rock-strewn scrubland. The morning passes quietly, each of them enmeshed in their own internal fears. Once or twice Gale manages to draw the group into conversation, mulling over the details of their circumstances like an artificer examining an unfamiliar artifact. The debates don’t accomplish much, but Lyr can’t fault him for trying.

As they walk, Lyr finds his thoughts straying back to Baldur’s Gate. By now his father will have noted his absence. Thinking of him alone in that place, trapped by the clinging weight of his own ghosts, sends a frantic whisper of anxiety racing through Lyr’s bloodstream.

( _You are so much like your mother_.)

In an effort to distract himself, he glances at Astarion. The chill of the elf’s mood is tangible in the air, tension clinging to the sharp angles of his profile. Lyr shifts the weight of his pack, adjusting his pace to match the other’s gait.

Neither of them speak for a while. The sun-baked scenery drifts by, occasionally punctuating Lyr’s thoughts with the sharp trill or muted scuffle of some hidden animal. Further ahead, Gale and Shadowheart strike up a stilted conversation. Lyr absorbs the rhythm of their voices, letting it blend like water into the tapestry of the landscape. Finally he asks, gently, “How are you feeling?”

Astarion’s expression pinches at the mouth. “Relax, darling. I’m fine. Not a tentacle to be seen.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No? Well if this is some misguided attempt to bond over our shared emotions, I’d just as soon not have that conversation.”

Lyr exhales a soft sigh. “As you wish.” Briefly he considers leaving Astarion to brood in silence, but the impulse fades. “If you don’t want to talk, would you prefer a distraction?”

Astarion looks at him. “What sort of distraction?” Lyr shrugs innocently. He strides ahead and turns to face his companion, walking backwards at a casual gait.

“What sort would you like?”

Astarion arches a brow, expression shifting to one of muted interest. “I appreciate the attempt, but you’re wearing far too many clothes to be properly distracting.”

“Am I?” Lyr glances down at his armor. With a shrug, he slides the pack from his shoulders and drops it unceremoniously into the dirt. Astarion gives a soft, surprised laugh.

“What are you doing?” Lyr keeps walking, momentarily abandoning his loot to the side of the road. He unbuckles his weapons next, dropping them one by one. Astarion watches all of this with growing amusement. “This… feels like a profoundly ill-advised idea.”

Nonetheless, Lyr continues undaunted, pulling at the lacing of his bracers. They fall to the earth with soft thumps of leather. Astarion steps over them lightly.

“You’re really going to just leave all of your things in the dirt?”

“You’re welcome to carry them.”

“Do I look like a pack mule? Bad enough I have to carry this.” He gestures with annoyance toward his own pack. At last, Lyr loosens the ties of his brigandine and pulls it off, dropping the armor in the grass.

“Better?"

“In terms of distraction? Hardly.”

“Oh...” Lyr untucks the edge of his shirt, lifting it to reveal the concave curve of his abdomen. “You wanted more?” Astarion’s eyes drop to the patch of bared skin.

“You realize I’ve already seen you half-naked. Multiple times.”

Lyr pulls the tunic over his head slowly, letting his muscles stretch under the sun. He drops the crumpled garment onto a rock and slows to a stop. Astarion pauses in front of him, eyes fixed on his torso. Lyr takes a slow breath.

“You’re still looking.”

“I rather thought that was the point.”

Lyr wets his lips and gives a lop-sided grin, setting his hands on his waist. “The point was to get you out of your head.”

Astarion gives a little huff, rolling his eyes. “How selfless of you.” He lets his gaze wander slowly downward. “By all means, continue.”

Heat blooms over Lyr’s skin, warming his face and neck. His lips part to take in a breath, steadying himself against the sudden onset of nerves.

“Oh, did I just call your bluff?” Astarion tilts his head, smug. Lyr sets his jaw stubbornly.

“What would you do if I kept going?” The question seems to give Astarion pause. In the intervening silence, Lyr tucks his thumbs into the waist of his pants and drags the fabric lower, highlighting the v-shaped crease in his pelvic muscles.

For an instant, Astarion’s breath stills. His eyes flick up to meet Lyr’s, cherry red and warm with interest, then down again to the liminal boundary between skin and cloth. Quietly, he touches the edge of one of his fangs with his tongue.

“Ah… perhaps we should give the two of you a moment alone,” Gale’s voice interjects, shattering the illusion of privacy. Lyr drops his hands, glancing up the trail to where their companions have stopped to watch.

“Part of me wants to ask…” Shadowheart muses. “The other part… really doesn’t.”

*******

They stop for lunch on the side of the road, picking through the last scraps of their stolen rations. Astarion’s mood seems modestly improved, despite his lack of appetite. Lyr sits beside him, quietly preoccupied by the velvet tone of his voice as it rises and dips. The electric buzz of their earlier flirtation still lingers in his veins. Irrationally, he finds himself wishing for a few moments of privacy.

Before long they’re back on the trail. Lyr strides out to the front of the group, scouting ahead for signs of civilization. As he passes a dense cluster of trees, he notices something lying in the grass. Frowning, he crouches down and lifts the edge of a frayed rope.

Behind him, Shadowheart breaks into a jog, slowing her gait as she draws near. “Find something?”

“This used to be a snare. Look.” He points to the slack knot at the rope’s end.

“Wonder what they were trying to catch.”

“Something big, whatever it was.” Dropping the rope, Lyr brushes his hand across the grass. Sections of it have been flattened and disturbed by boot prints. Carding through the crushed blades, he notices flecks of dried blood hidden amidst the green.

As he contemplates the scene, an unfamiliar voice carries over on the breeze: _“... was right. Yellow as a toad, and twice as ugly.”_

Lyr glances up. “Did you hear that?” Shadowheart nods.

“Up ahead, in that ravine.”

Gale and Astarion catch up to their position, eyeing the slope in the road. Beyond it, a pair of voices continue to argue back and forth, their volume amplified by the surrounding cliffs. Lyr rises and makes his way quietly toward the ravine’s entrance, treading the road in quick, agile strides. Astarion sticks close behind him, his feet silent on the dirt path.

_“The thing’s dangerous. Leave it for the goblins to kill.”_

_“And if it escapes?”_

Peering over the rocks, Lyr takes in the scene below: a pair of tieflings, visibly agitated, pace back and forth beneath a heavy wooden cage. Within the cage, a familiar figure stands at the bars, her fierce eyes glaring daggers at her captors.

 _Lae’zel_.

Lyr takes in a quick, silent breath. His pulse jumps with relief, beating rapidly against his eardrums. Beside him, Astarion touches his wrist, indicating the scene below with a tip of his head and a questioning look. Lyr answers with a nod. Gale and Shadowheart creep in carefully at their backs, expressions wary. While the tieflings argue, Lyr scans the area. Lae’zel’s cage hangs from a tree by a thick rope, its weight rocking lightly in the breeze. If someone were to cut it down, the fall would be painful but not lethal. His group’s position above the basin lends them advantage in combat, should they require it.

Suddenly Astarion leans in close, his presence irrationally distracting, and whispers into the sensitive folds of Lyr’s ear. “We can handle these two. Come on.”

Lyr, inclined to agree with his assessment, glances over his shoulder and gestures for the others to follow. Rising from his crouch, he steps around the rocks and begins to make his way down the steep trail. “Interesting prisoner you’ve caught there.”

Startled by his sudden appearance, the tieflings go quiet. For a moment, Lyr half-expects confrontation, but then the elder of the two gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Apologies, friend. I did not see you approach. We were merely passing through when we found the creature trapped thus. Be warned: she is quite dangerous.”

“Is she?” Lyr jumps down and lands in a soft patch of grass. Behind him, he can hear the others approaching at their own pace. Astarion’s footsteps are quick and unnervingly quiet as he reaches flat ground.

“Our friend was murdered.” The second tiefling’s voice is heavy with grief. “By one of these… monsters. Just ran him through like it was nothing.”

Lyr takes a moment to let the weight of that confession sink in. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and deliberate. “That is a cruel end. I’m sorry.” The woman’s features take on a pained expression. She gives a faint nod and looks away.

Suddenly, Lyr’s head throbs with pain. He can feel the tadpole writhe as an outside presence breaches his thoughts: _“Get rid of them.”_

The voice belongs to Lae’zel. Lyr raises his eyes, meeting her cold stare with a sharp look of his own. The implications of such an ability are… troubling.

To the tieflings, he says, “Was this one involved in your friend’s death?”

“Not directly, no,” replies the first. “But we can’t risk letting her loose.”

Lyr considers his next words carefully. “I should think a tiefling would understand what it’s like to be unfairly punished for another’s actions.”

Both tieflings look at him sharply. “This is _not_ the same,” says the first.

“Isn’t it? By your own admission, she’s done nothing wrong.”

“ _Yet_.”

“You don’t know that. What happened to your friend is a tragedy, but leaving this githyanki to die isn’t justice. It’s just… cruel.”

For a long moment, the tieflings are silent. Lyr can feel the quiet attention of his companions at his back, their bodies still as they take in the unfolding scene. Lae’zel lifts her lip in a soundless snarl, but makes no move to interrupt.

Finally the second tiefling touches her friend’s arm. “Let’s just go. Let these people help her if they wish.”

“What’s to stop her coming after us?”

“We will, if it comes to that.” Lyr reassures them.

The older tiefling sizes up the group with a shrewd gaze, no doubt calculating the validity of Lyr’s claim. Finally, the man gives a bone-deep sigh. He nods, turning away from the cage. “Do what you will, then. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Lyr exhales in relief. “Thank you.”

The tieflings depart slowly, picking their way up the side of the ravine. Once, the woman looks back, gaze lingering on Lae’zel before offering Lyr a silent nod. Then they crest the hill and disappear quietly down the road.

“Huh,” Astarion observes, “I really didn’t expect that to work.”

In her cage, Lae’zel hisses a guttural curse. “Release me. _Now_.”

“Such gratitude,” Astarion replies dryly. Lyr ignores them both. The tree anchoring Lae’zel’s cage is tall and knotted with age. Leaping to catch one of the lower branches, he hauls himself up and begins to climb.

“The tieflings had the right instinct,” Shadowheart warns. “We shouldn’t have intervened.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” Gale argues. “We don’t even know her.”

“And if you keep speaking of me as though I am not here, you may get to know my blade _intimately_ ,” Lae’zel growls.

Lyr scales the tree quickly, working his way up the branches with practiced momentum. When he reaches the heavy limb anchoring the cage, he drops down to sit astride the branch and shimmies out to where the rope is knotted around the wood. Swinging down, Lyr grabs the rope and scales his way to the cage. The branch dips and creaks from the added weight, but otherwise holds firm. Grasping the wooden bars, Lyr climbs to the base of the cage and hangs his weight by one hand. With the other, he unsheathes his knife and goes to work on the corded rope holding the floor of the contraption together.

He doesn’t notice the others watching him until Astarion says, “Quite the agile little climber, aren’t you?”

Lyr grunts. “‘Little?’ I’m taller than all of you.” He looks up at Lae’zel. “Grab onto the side.” Lae’zel does so, wrapping her powerful arms around the wooden bars. “How the hells did you even end up in this thing?”

“That is... unimportant.”

“This isn’t the only trap around here. We need to know if whoever built them poses a threat.”

“If I encounter them, I will let you know. _After_ I paint the ground with their blood.”

Lyr severs one of the knots. The floor of the cage drops open at the corner, creaking beneath Lae’zel’s weight. The muscles in Lyr’s hanging arm burn from strain, so he puts the knife between his teeth and switches hands. Sawing through the final knots, he works until the last taut threads stretch thin with tension. “Alright, get ready.”

With a final cut, the bottom of the cage falls open. Lae’zel swings down and drops, armor clinking as she lands on her feet. Lyr sheaths his knife and jumps down beside her.

Lae’zel turns to regard him silently. After a moment, she gives a subtle nod. “You have made an ally from Crèche K’liir. Few know such fortune.” To the others she says, “Call me Lae’zel.”

Shadowheart’s expression goes dark. “Fool. No point in showing a mad dog kindness. It’ll still bite you in the end.”

“You’ve a sharp tongue, half-breed. Would that your mind proved its equal.”

“Enough!” Lyr snaps in frustration. “We might all be transformed by sundown, and Lae’zel is the only lead we have. Whatever personal issues you have with her, you need to put them aside.” He turns to the githyanki, mouth curling in anger. “Call one of us ‘half-breed’ again. I dare you.” 

Lae’zel meets his gaze with a silent challenge, head tipped and eyes glinting. Shadowheart just glowers, folding her arms across her chest. Gradually, the crackle of tension begins to dissipate. Lae’zel releases her breath and turns to the group.

“Come. The horned ones mentioned a camp. One there, called Zorru, has seen githyanki. A crèche must be near. We will ask this Zorru where he has seen my kin.”

“A lucky coincidence,” Gale replies. “We were searching for this camp.”

“Now we’ve another reason to find it,” Lyr agrees. “Let’s go.” Turning, he catches Astarion watching him. The line of his gaze is piercing and direct, red eyes glinting like rubies in the sunlight.

“You’re rather attractive when you’re angry.”

Beneath the flush of exertion and summer heat, Lyr can feel blood rising to his cheeks. He takes a breath and lets it out, giving himself a moment to process the tonal shift. “Well at least one of us is enjoying it.”

Astarion laughs. “I’m enjoying a lot of things about you today.”

*******

They continue heading North, hiking through the bright glare of the afternoon sun. Beads of sweat collect at the nape of Lyr’s neck, clinging uncomfortably to his hairline. More than once he finds himself wishing he could abandon his heavy pack and strip off his armor as he did that morning. During the walk, Shadowheart remains prickly and subdued. Lyr attempts to draw her into conversation, but she rebuffs his concerns. Whatever the source of her distrust, it isn’t a secret she seems willing to share.

At last, they turn a bend in the road and spy what appears to be the entrance to an encampment. The fortified gate stands quiet against the green and rocky landscape, tucked between the rising slopes of two craggy hills.

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Gale utters in relief.

“We should probably hold our gratitude until we see what’s inside,” Lyr points out, but the easing of tension among the group is palpable. On their approach, he spots a handful of tieflings keeping watch from the parapet. One of them leans out over the wall, eyeing their weapons with a wary gaze.

“Ho there, strangers. State your business.”

“We’ve come seeking trade,” Lyr replies. “What is this place?”

“You’ve reached the Grove of Silvanus. If it’s trade you’re after, then you’re welcome, though you’d best keep those weapons sheathed.”

“We will.”

The guard beckons them closer, calling out to someone behind the wall: “Open the gate!”

The wooden barrier gives a sonorous creak and begins to rise, yawning open to reveal a lush, idyllic druid’s camp. Lyr leads the way inside, scanning the surroundings for signs of danger. Ahead of him, the path forks: one side leading to an open cave system populated with temporary structures, the other winding up a hill toward the grove proper. The guards maintain their watch from a distance. None of them have the look of hardened soldiers.

Lae’zel reaches his side, hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she eyes the tieflings menacingly. “Come. We will hunt down this ‘Zorru.’”

“There isn’t much time before sundown, and it’ll look suspicious if we all start poking around the camp. Why don’t we split up? You and Gale find the tiefling. The rest of us can deal with the merchants.”

“Ah, not to complain,” Gale interjects, “but I am quite good at haggling. Perhaps…” His voice trails off as he glances from Shadowheart to Astarion, then to Lyr, who offers him an imploring look. “Never mind. Shall we, Lae’zel?”

*******

The halfling whistles as he lifts one of the jeweled necklaces up to the light. Its teardrop emeralds glow like verdant embers in the sun, glinting magnificently. “These are valuable. Are you certain you want to trade them here? Not to turn away good business, mind, but you’d surely earn more in the city.”

“I’m certain,” Lyr replies. He looks around briefly, eyeing the makeshift living quarters in the cave. “Are these tieflings from Elturel?”

“They are. We’ve given them shelter for now, though I fear it may not help much in the end.”

“Could they not stay?”

“They aren’t druids. This is not the place for them.”

“It could be. Seems like they’re helping out.” Lyr gestures to the guards at the wall.

“They are,” the halfling admits. “Honestly, if you ask me, it’s been… nice, having them here. But the circumstances are complicated. The grove has neither the space nor the resources to house them long-term, and we druids are a private people. It’ll be better for all when they’re able to resume their journey to Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’m from Baldur’s Gate. Trust me, they aren’t giving the tieflings anything close to a warm welcome. And those problems you mention sound pretty fixable to me.”

The halfling frowns, then gives a soft, exasperated laugh. “Well you’re welcome to take it up with Kagha if she’ll see you. She’s in charge while Halsin’s away.”

While they speak, Astarion trots over to join them, his footsteps light against the packed earth of the cave. “There’s a delightfully demented old woman over there. You really must meet her.”

“Maybe later.” Lyr glances around. “Where’s Shadowheart?”

“She’s talking to a blacksmith. Says he can make us some _proper_ weapons if we come back tomorrow.”

Before Lyr can respond, a disturbance at the gate draws his attention:

_“Those goblins will be on us any second!”_

_“You led goblins_ here? _Where is the druid?”_

_“Please! There’s no time!”_

_“By the nine hells… open the gate!”_

The gate begins to rise, only to fall shut with a resonant thud as the operator drops dead from an arrow. Alarmed, Lyr rushes toward the wall. Astarion follows in his wake, pausing at Lyr’s side when they reach the ladder. “Now we have to deal with _goblins?_ Eugh.”

Someone on the wall cries out. Lyr grabs the ladder and hoists himself up, climbing rapidly. When he reaches the top, he crouches low and ducks his head, moving to peer over the parapet. Outside the gate, a group of armed travelers back anxiously toward the wall, weapons raised against the incoming assault. The advancing goblins outnumber them at least three to one. As Lyr watches, a bugbear charges forward and clashes with one of the swordsmen. The human executes a valiant defense, but it’s clear he’s overwhelmed. A sharp clang of steel rings through the air as their weapons meet.

When Astarion reaches the top of the ladder, Lyr gestures for his attention. “I’m going down. Cover me?”

“Wait, are you joking?” Astarion unhooks his bow and ducks behind cover.

“No.” Lyr doesn’t give him time to argue. He creeps along the parapet, waiting for a good opening, then in a flurry of motion vaults over the edge of the wall and swings down, grasping the lip of the stone.

“Lyr, stop!” Astarion shouts. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Just cover me!” Following the cracks and divots in the stone, Lyr manages to scramble down low enough to jump. One of the goblins’ arrows strikes the wall near his arm. Astarion returns fire, cursing angrily.

“This isn’t our fight, you reckless idiot!”

Lyr releases his hold and leaps down. The fall is long, jarring his bones with the force of its impact. Almost immediately one of the goblins charges at him. Lyr hits it in the eye with a throwing knife and runs to assist the survivors.

A blow from the bugbear sends the dark-haired human sprawling onto his back. Before it can close in for the kill, Lyr ducks beneath its arm and strikes out twice with his swords, tearing two thick gashes into the creature’s hide. Blood splatters across the ground in a liquid pattern. The bugbear roars, twisting to redirect its attacks. When Lyr rebounds, an arrow hits the bugbear in the neck. It slows for a moment, wheezing for breath, and Lyr strikes upward with all his strength, burying the end of his blade into the soft flesh beneath his opponent’s jaw.

When he wrenches the sword free, the creature’s throat tears open like a waterskin, fountaining vital fluid. The bugbear hits the ground with a heavy thud, the scent of its blood pungent and metallic under the hot sun.

Tossing his head back, Lyr makes a lightning-quick check of the survivors. Some are wounded, but none fatally so. In an instant, he feels a telltale prickle of energy and dives for cover behind a rock. The cliff above him shudders with the impact of a force bolt, raining dirt and stone fragments over his back.

An arrow cuts across the field, and the goblin spellcaster goes down with a shout. But there are more. So many more…

Lyr erupts from cover and races toward one of the archers. She fires at him, but he pivots at the hip and manages to evade. When he reaches her, he cuts her bow in two with a swift downward stroke. Just barely, she manages to roll away and draw her knife. Two more goblins run to her aid, and Lyr finds himself fending off attacks from all sides.

Suddenly, the air beside him stirs as a figure materializes within a glowing surge of magic. Lyr isn’t afforded much chance to size him up, registering only a vague impression of someone tall and confident, his handsome face scarred by claw marks. “Thought you could use a hand,” the man offers, lunging forward to slash one of the goblins across the neck with his rapier. “Goblin scum! There’s no escaping the Blade of Frontiers!”

They make short work of the remaining two. Nearby, a few of the fighters manage to take down another bugbear. A tiefling spellcaster on the wall fires a flaming bolt at a pocket of goblin archers, killing two and dispersing the rest.

Just then an arrow cuts past Lyr’s arm, close enough to leave a tear in the fabric of his shirt. He spots the archer standing atop a tall hill, another arrow at the ready. “Up there!” he warns, gesturing quickly as he runs for cover.

Astarion’s voice rings out across the field. “Lyr, look out!”

For a split second, Lyr thinks he means the archer. Then a great, snarling beast rears up from the shadow of the hill and snaps its jaws shut on his thigh.

Blinding pain shoots through the limb. The worg’s teeth are long and viciously jagged, tearing ravenously through skin and muscle to scrape against the bone. Lyr’s center of gravity is ripped out from under him as he’s dragged from his feet and thrown back and forth over the ground like a ragdoll.

No. Like prey.

Adrenaline explodes through his veins. The world tumbles and spins dizzyingly, crashing up against his body with bruising force. One of the muscles in his thigh splits open and an involuntary scream claws its way from his throat.

Something hits the worg on its side: an arrow, a spell… Lyr can’t tell the difference. It stumbles and growls but doesn’t let up. In the chaos, Lyr realizes he’s lost his grip on his swords.

There’s blood on the ground. His blood. One of his hands rakes through it as he tries desperately to anchor himself. The worg bats at his side with its claws, raking gouges into the leather armor. The pressure of its jaw feels like a vice.

With a desperate surge of strength, Lyr yanks the knife from his belt and coils upward, using his core to lift his torso from the ground. The pull on his torn leg makes his vision explode with stars. Howling with rage, he grabs the worg’s head and buries his knife into its neck.

Then its face. Its eye. Its throat. Over and over he lashes out, puncturing the beast’s head with rapid, desperate strikes.

Until suddenly it drops, and Lyr’s back hits the ground. And the world finally, blessedly, goes still.

Shaking and nauseated, Lyr drops his knife and tries to sit up. The motion sparks a fresh jolt of agony as he falls back onto his hands, gasping. The worg’s lifeless jaws remain buried in his flesh. He wants desperately to pull the thing off and fling it away, but a deep survival instinct warns him not to. The wound is… bad.

Very bad. Just keeping his eyes on it is difficult. The flesh along his thigh is shredded. Blood pools thick in the grass beneath him. One of the punctures keeps spurting sharp red ribbons through the worg’s teeth.

Dimly, Lyr becomes aware of the battles taking place around him. The man who called himself the Blade of Frontiers ducks beneath a bugbear's club, retaliating with a blast of magical energy. Arrows continue to fire both to and from the gate. In the distance, a familiar warcry draws Lyr’s attention. He looks over his shoulder in time to spot Lae’zel charging headlong into a tangle of goblin warriors. One of them breaks away and runs at Lyr, its sword drawn high.

Before it can get more than seven paces, an arrow strikes it in the back. Then another, and another. The last one pierces clean through its throat. Behind it, Astarion comes into view, his bow held aloft in one hand. He looks at Lyr and breaks into a run, shouting over his shoulder: “Gale, get Shadowheart _now!"_

When he reaches Lyr’s side, he drops down to his knees. “Fuck the Gods,” he growls. “What did I tell you? You stupid, stubborn man…”

“Are you going to help, or just insult me?” Lyr snaps. He feels dizzy and out of breath. Whenever he glances down at his leg, a fresh wave of nausea rises in his throat.

“Lyr, if I pull that thing off, you’ll die.”

“I know...” Lyr drops down to his elbows, blinking. The grass on the hill shimmers strangely in the sun. Beneath his hand, the ground is slick with blood.

He’s never bled this much before. Not even…

Lyr looks up at Astarion. The elf’s sharp features have taken on a strange intensity, rapt and wild and raw. He sets down his bow, hands shaking lightly. When he breathes, his nostrils flare.

“Astarion?” Lyr asks softly.

“Yes?”

“Are you a vampire?”

Astarion turns his head suddenly, eyes wide and frozen in fear.

He doesn’t answer.

Slowly, Lyr lowers his head back to the ground. A cold chill courses through his body, drawing an involuntary shiver. “A vampire almost killed me once.”

“Oh?” Astarion’s voice is barely audible above the lingering shouts of battle.

But Lyr loses the train of thought. “I feel cold…”

“Shadowheart’s coming. Just hang on a little longer.”

Lyr can feel his jaw shaking. Suddenly he reaches up and grips the front of Astarion’s doublet. “Please don’t leave.”

Astarion looks down at his hand in surprise. For a moment he seems about to pull away, but then he loosens Lyr’s grasp and threads their fingers together. “Where would I go?”

Lyr clutches Astarion’s hand tightly. He can feel his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Astarion looks quickly over his shoulder and shouts, “Over here! Hurry!”

Then the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: Other Lives, [No Trouble](https://youtu.be/SAPrfsT2yfE)
> 
> Femoral artery injuries are no joke. :( Think I may have finally earned that graphic violence warning. (Don't worry. I have a feeling Lyr will pull through.)
> 
> Sorry this one took so long, guys. I had to deal with a lot of health issues last month. Here's hoping March will go a little smoother. Thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with this fic and patiently waiting for updates. I appreciate you all so much. <3
> 
> Special thank you to [fluttermoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth), who very kindly helped me out with some D&D lore.
> 
> I commissioned the amazing [Paperwick](https://paperwick.tumblr.com/) for some tarot/cover art, and the super talented [aliensundermybed](https://aliensundermybed.tumblr.com/) for an illustration of a scene in chapter 2. They've been added to the first and second chapter, respectively, if anyone wants to check them out. :D
> 
> FYI: The bite scene is coming up. There will be some explicit content with that.


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